


12 days of falling in love

by beaubcxton, marauuders



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, PoC Harry, Romance, Snow, so many inside jokes it'll make you scream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-27 10:10:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17160077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubcxton/pseuds/beaubcxton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauuders/pseuds/marauuders
Summary: When people say Christmas is magical, they don't mean it literally. Or do they?Maybe, some hot chocolate and a few carols can do miracles...***Day 8-Santa chuckles loudly attracting quite a few stares including Harry’s. “That’s a fancy way of saying old. I think I know what you want for Christmas.”“You do?” Hermione is surprised. She’d been in the mind that she had everything she could ever need.Mr. Claus hums in agreement. “It’s that boy there, isn’t it? He’s who you want for Christmas.”Day 10-With a trembling finger, Hermione hits the play button.“Hey!” A blonde man she doesn’t know greets her, “I’m Andrew, and you must be Mione!” A voice in the background rebukes him. “Sorry, I’ve just been told I can’t call you that. Apparently, the nickname’s reserved. [...]”The video blurs in waves of color, until it gets stable again, framing a well-known dimple smile, “Right from the headquarters of Buzzfeed UK! I’ll be back in about an hour.”And, casually, he blows a kiss to the camera, before ending the recording.“You’re blushing again,” Teddy says.This time, Hermione doesn’t even deny it.





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SimplicityInADream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplicityInADream/gifts).



> Merry Christmas @hermione-who!! We love you with all our heart, and so do Hermione and Harry!! We hope you like this, because you deserve all the love in the universe (+some hot chocolate and snow on Christmas Day).
> 
> A/N by @marauuders: As always, @beaubcxton wrote most of this and WROTE IT WONDERFULLY. FEEL THE MAGIC OF HER WORDS Y'ALL
> 
> A/N by @beaubcxton : You know this is a lie. @marauuders wrote most of the thing and she worked so hard to edit. All the best parts of the fic are written by her. Also, send her love on Tumblr. It's been an honor co-writing with a goddess

On the right side of the fence where Santa and His Jolly Elves are singing their carols, a majestic pine tree has been planted in a corner. Plastic reindeers circle it, stiff in their pause that suggests they are probably dancing. The one with a red nose is nudging a pile of kaleidoscopic, sparkling card boxes.

The row of heavily decorated backyards extends itself infinitely, along Puddifoot Street. Some feature three feet tall angels holding out bowls of candies -- that must undoubtedly be real --, other have a miniature, feisty city that takes half of their space. Red, green, and gold colors are everywhere, sprinkled with snow from yesterday night’s fall. There are even some Santas hanging from gutters, or half-stuck in chimneys.

A loud whistling sound calls Hermione back to her kitchen, and she is glad to tear her stare away from the scene.

If asked about herself, Hermione would say there is not much to say.

She works at an elementary school where most of the kids ignore her, except when they need to go to the bathroom and have to raise their hands to get permission. Her fellow professors, which are more experienced -- a professional way to say old as mummies -- tend to avoid her too, except when favors need to be granted. ****

She has lost contact with her university friends after moving to the south, and has struggled for a time to find other mates, before abandoning the hope on behalf of her job. Getting up at six and leaving your workplace at seven in the afternoon doesn’t really leave you any time to do anything.

The only reason she actually likes Durmstrang Elementary School is the Christmas break. It starts on December 13th, for no other reason than the institution’s tradition of sending everybody home for the twelve days before Yule.

A thick column of vapor rises from the beak of the kettle, and Hermione pours the boiling water in the color washed teapot with a hum of approval.

Her kitchen, like the rest of the house, is bare, empty of decorations.

She doesn’t hate Christmas.

She has some amazing memories of eggnog evenings with her father, or of opening the Advent Calendar with her mother. Winter was her favorite time, as a child.

She mechanically walks toward her desk, in an angle of the living room, and puts her steaming cup down. Rolling her sleeves up her wrists, she tucks her tongue out, looking for the bookmark she set yesterday. And ends up irritating herself.

With her bad habit of falling asleep on her documents, she never remembers what her bookmark looks like, let along in what book she puts it.

“I know you're here somewhere,” she whispers, turning her _Advanced Psychology of the Human Species_ manual in her hands.

Outside, the wind flirts with the naked branches, swooping over the fresh snow to carry its coolness under the doors and in the little cavities of the houses. The road is quiet, respectful of the concentration that the woman needs to-

Wait.

The road is not quiet.

A light laughter spreads itself over the fences that delimit the perfectly aligned gardens, and reaches Hermione's ears. So used to live in total silence during Christmas break, she's taken aback by the simple sound of it.

Except for the Lupin family, which owns the house right next to hers, nobody has children at home at this time of the year. And, every Christmas break, the Lupins send their Teddy -- who’s enrolled in the same school where Hermione works -- to Center London, to spend the first part of the holidays with his godfather.

Hermione stretches her ear, but the laughter has vanished. Maybe she just daydreamed about it. After all, her last class was only yesterday.

She gets back at fighting with her pile of books.

Studying is her way to get out of reality, to forget the world around. It used to be reading, before. She loved when Aunt Marjorie took the time, at the end of her day, to go through a couple of fairytale chapters with her. She would do se when her parents were too busy to come home before she went to bed. She used to love those moments, those stories. ****

But she has grown up. Tales of princes on their white horses and fighter princesses are over for her. Getting her Psychology degree is her main goal at the moment.

She has always dreamed of opening her own studio, to help kids who struggle with familiar issues. She has seen so many. Has been one herself. ****

The few people with whom she still has some interactions have told her countless times that, unless she becomes a mother, it will be impossible for her to understand the intricate reasonings of families.

That’s bullshit.

Women do not have to have children to be useful. ****

Plus, her classroom has become her field of observation, and she has gotten used to pre-teen mindsets.

Still, one point on which she agrees with those uninvited opinions is that she won’t be very skilled to treat couple problems, even after passing the exam. She absolutely has no experience on the matter.

“About darn time,” she mutters, finally getting a grip on the plastic wrapping that she stuck in the chapter 7 of _Psychology of Women_.

The title of page 164 reads: _The Early Stages of Falling In Love_.

A groan escapes her throat. ****

Not the topic she wanted to work on today.

She grabs her cup of tea, resigning herself to today’s subject, but chokes on the liquid when a muffled thud echoes from her roof, followed by several others and loud shouting.

Definitely, Teddy hasn’t gone to Center London this year.

Ignoring the noise seems the best to do, but she has to give up after five minutes of trying.

The wooden floor, stiff because of the cool weather, creaks under her steps.

Pushing the curtains aside, she peeks at Puddifoot Street. Behind her empty flower pot, there is a coat of snow on the little alley that links her house to the next one, and some blurry people seem to get great advantage of it.

She had never witnessed Mr. Lupin playing with Teddy during winter. She had assumed that the man with scars like tattoos all over his face suffered from a rare health condition, preventing him from staying outside too long in a cold climate.

Pulling her woolen sleeve to the window, she erases the mist that gathered on the glass panel.

When the transparent surface is finally clean, she leans forward, but only has the time to catch a glimpse of a pair of glasses framing green eyes -- that most certainly don’t belong to Mr. Lupin -- before a loud crash makes her start.

The fragments of the pot that was resting on the window frame two seconds earlier are now decorating the concrete floor that borders the house, the only place not reached by the snow last night.

 _Shit._ Aunt Marjorie’s pot.

With hurried steps, Hermione exits the warmness of her interior. The atmosphere attacks her through her light clothes, stinging her ribs with its icy claws. Wearing only slippers and a pajama under her sweater, she does not dare to kneel down, but her constatation of the disaster is still the same.

She feels a bit dizzy. Not because of the cold.

It was a horrible pot, heck yes. But her and Aunt Marjorie had had a good laugh when they had bought it. And this was what mattered.

She feels like crying, but the dryness of the air doesn’t allow her to.

Her _Advanced Psychology of the Human Species_ manual would probably define her as slightly deranged because she’s mourning a flower pot.

Lost in her illogical reverie, she doesn’t hear the steps behind her, crushing the snow in a prudent cadence. She only gets out of her trance when something heavy falls on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry.”

Hermione turns around, and the jacket that the boy had put on her back falls down. He bends to retrieve it, and shakes it before offering it again to her. “You’ll get one hell of a cold if you stay out here with barely a-”

His voice trails down, and Hermione suddenly remembers that she’s wearing pajamas bottom. She grabs the coat, and wraps herself in the hot leather, blushing madly. It’s a relief to feel the soft texture of faux-fur around on her neck. ****

She looks up at the man, about to mutter a ‘thank you’, but his embarrassed expression is a reminder of why she’s outside while it’s below zero.

“You-”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

He tries to scratch his neck, but his muffles make it awkward. Hermione could almost smile, but- ****

“Blimey,” the boy whispers, noticing her chattering teeth. “You should get inside and have a hot chocola-”

“Yeah, I’ll do.”

He narrows his eyes a little, as if thinking that she’s not the type of girl that would make herself some hot chocolate.

“I- I was about to make some,” he adds. “And, I want to apologize for-” He gestures toward the reddish bits on the floor. “But make sure you decide quickly, because you’re about to turn into an ice cube.”

Hermione scrutinises him, his face, his green eyes that seem to send sparkles into the fizzy weather. She doesn’t know him. Where’s he from, first of all? He just materialized from thin air. The only thing she knows is that he was having a snowball fight with the Lupin child, two minutes ago.

The wind lifts some snow around them, and the tip of her nose seems to turn an awful blueish color.

Questions for later.

“Ok for the hot chocolate.”

* * *

 

It’s weird, isn’t it.

Hermione, the plain-life psychology student and model teacher, drinking a hot Christmas beverage in the house of a stranger. And doing so while wearing pajamas.

“Remind me of your name?”

The guy is leaning backwards on the kitchen counter, cuping his mug with both hands. His glasses’ lenses are whitish, reflecting the cold light of the window. He observes her from behind them.

“I haven’t told you.”

He looks down. “Right.”

She doesn’t remember his, even if he told her.

He had opened the door of the house next to hers, letting her in before him.

Once inside, he had held his hand out, muttered his name and something like “we forgot to present each other properly,” but she had not paid much attention. Hurried steps had scuttled away on the floor above.

He had led her to the kitchen, and started breaking down some cocoa bars, almost suffocating in the awkward silence.

The only bit of conversation was the “here you are,” “thanks,” exchange of courtesy.

The breaking of Aunt Marjorie’s pot hit her hard, but now she forces herself to look at him with less resentful eyes.

She had already noticed his deep green eyes, but her stare trails on his fine traits, brown pigment, and messy hair. Something about his shyness makes him appear skinnier than he actually is: there is no way to ignore his broad shoulders after a second glance.

Common people would describe him as being very cute.

She sees him more as… interesting. ****  
** **

“It’s Hermione.” ****  
** **

Both of them look to the door. A frail, blue-haired kid is eyeing carefully from behind the frame. ****  
** **

“What, buddy?” Interesting guy lays his cup on the table, and kneels down, so Teddy has to look down at him. ****  
** **

“Her name,”  he points at her face. “Is Hermione.” ****  
** **

Messy-hair looks up at Hermione with his intense stare. She hasn’t seen him smile yet, but she guesses that he terribly wants to. And finds herself wishing he would. ****  
** **

For science’s sake, of course. ****  
** **

“Your secret is revealed, I guess,” he says. ****  
** **

For some reason, the kid’s presence makes her much less angry. Or is it Green-eyes’ dimple, which he’s finally showing with a wide grin? ****  
** **

She shrugs, and can’t avoid to reflect his expression. “It was not a secret.” She takes a short sip of the hot drink, turning to Teddy. “So, Lupin, who’s the man who broke my pot?” ****  
** **

And she nods toward Dimple-smile. ****  
** **

Teddy’s mouth contracts in a grimace. After looking better at his hair, Hermione notices the purple points. She knew that the Lupins were- quite original, but she would have never guessed that… it would be at this level. ****  
** **

“I broke the pot, Ms. Granger,” he admits, wrinkling his nose, as if he was gulping down something bitter. “But my godfather likes to take the blame for me.” ****  
** **

Hermione’s lips part in surprise. She had always assumed that Teddy’s godfather was a 50-years-old greyish man, passionate about bridges, and with an enormous collection of old stamps and creased plaid shirts. Not somebody like Broad-shoulders. ****  
** **

Not somebody as cu- interesting. ****  
** **

“He takes the blame for you?” ****  
** **

Teddy nods, recovering his mischievous expression. “Yeah, a lot. Especially if it’s an excuse to invite a pretty lady to dr-” ****  
** **

“Do you want some cocoa, buddy?” ****  
** **

Chocolate-skin, who had been silent until then, quickly rose, before his godson could finish the sentence. But the kid’s laughing eyes are enough for Hermione to get the whole meaning. ****  
** **

Teddy shakes his head, and sprints out in the corridor. ****  
** **

“Little pain in the neck,” the godfather whispers, before calling out, “Teddy, you forgot-” ****  
** **

“Sorry, Ms. Granger!” shouts the kid, already halfway up the stairs. ****  
** **

Then, he bursts in a wave of giggles, and his steps echo on the floor above.

Interesting-guy turns to Hermione, his face skin a darker shade of brown. ****  
** **

Coffee, she thinks, is a beautiful shade. ****  
** **

A cherub ‘awwws’ from a corner of her mind, but she shakes him away very quickly. ****  
** **

“I guess your secret is uncovered now,” she teases. Her host looks very confused, as if fearing that she’d believed what his godson said. “About always covering up Teddy’s little mistakes.” ****  
** **

“Oh! Er- yeah.” _Relief can really be seen in histhe eyes_ , Hermione thinks. “Well, what’s the point of being a godfather, if not?” They smile together. “I’m- very sorry for your pot.”

For a second, she had forgotten about it. ****  
** **

“Don’t worry,” she shrugs it away. “I can’t hide that I was very attached to it, but- it was just an object, right?” ****  
** **

Green-eyes nods, and offers her an encouraging grin. “Do you want some more chocolate?” ****  
** **

And, Hermione still wearing pajamas, and Messy-hair melting more nectar of Christmas, they resume their drinking, slowly getting deep in a conversation about anything and everything. ****  
** **

* * *

****  
** **

“Don’t you like the holiday?” ****  
** **

Ugh. The question she dreaded. ****  
** **

“It’s not-” The bottom of her cup, with its little grains of cocoa swimming in a puddle of brownish milk, suddenly seems very interesting. “It’s not that I don’t like it.” ****  
** **

_It’s just too hurtful._ ****  
** **

The man feels that the question makes her uneasy, but how can somebody not like Christmas? Maybe there is something he can do for her. “Your house is the only one empty of decorations on the street, and your sweater,” he points his spoon at the blue wool under his leather jacket, “Is obviously not Christmassy.” ****  
** **

Even if she knows her old jersey by heart, Hermione still grabs the textile between two fingers, and frowns at it, “I don’t see what you can reproach to my sweater. It’s very good and warm-” ****  
** **

“But it’s not Christmassy.” His spoon falls back inside his cup, sending drops of the beverage in the air like little fireworks. “Something needs to be done to fix that. And what about your front yard? I brought a lot of light garlands that we can’t use here, we’d overcharge the house. I can help you to-" ****  
** **

“It’s very nice of you,” she stops him with a sigh, “But I don’t have time for mistletoes or golden ribbons in my living room. Plus, the only other organic form of life that would enjoy them is my cat, and he would throw everything to the floor anyway.” He’s about to reply, but she doesn’t let him. “Where are Teddy’s parents?” ****  
** **

The green eyes twinkle with a special glint, the one that sparks up when somebody accepts a challenge. This topic’s conversation is over. But just for now. ****  
** **

“They have gone to France for a few days, visiting Dora’s family. They’ll be back on the 17th.” ****  
** **

_It’s nice to celebrate with someone_ , thinks Hermione. But the thought is gone as quickly as it had manifested itself. A red light in her mind flashes: SWITCH TOPIC. ****  
** **

“Is Teddy’s hair- bicolor?” ****  
** **

To her hesitant question, Interesting-guy bursts in a loud laughter. ****  
** **

“He just dyed it, two days ago, before his parents left.” He shrugs, lessening the importance of the action. “He wanted to look like his favorite character from this- wizarding book. And Dora’s quite young and open minded, you know. She dyed hers too, bubblegum pink.” ****  
** **

It’s hard for Hermione to imagine her neighbour with a neon mane. “Did Mr. Lupin-?” ****  
** **

The man has to spit his drink in the sink, coughing and laughing simultaneously. “Oh, that would the best gift I’d received in years. But unfortunately no, he hasn’t dyed his hair too.” ****  
** **

Hermione would have found his behavior disgusting, in other circumstances, but she smiles. It’s true that imagining Mr. Lupin with green or red hair would let no one impassible.

A draught runs along Puddifoot Street, precipitating snow down from the roofs, shaking the windows, and moving the decorations in the backyards. The 24-carats-smile Santa is now facing the house number 34, also known as the Lupins house.

At Hermione’s home, the bookmark is still laying open on chapter 7 of Psychology of Women.


	2. Day 2

 

Her steaming cup of tea is patiently waiting between the pile of books and stack of revision papers, tempting her with its bitter-sweet smell. The street has been really quiet for the whole morning: not a sound, not a laughter to be heard. In other conditions, it would have been the dreamed setting for a day of study.

But Hermione is not really in the mood for sitting down. One of her fingers slides between the curtains, and pulls them apart, just enough for her eyes to fall on the outside.

Naked, sad, upsettingly grey. And empty.

She sighs.

The snow has melt down, leaving behind its characteristic muddy soil. There is not a soul to be seen, it’s still too early for --regular-- school vacations, and too impossible for-

Oh, honestly. What was she waiting for. It’s not as if this kind of distraction could happen everyday. Plus, it was just some civility between neighbours.

Still, what a c- interesting guy, that… What is his name again?

She had heard Teddy going on about his godfather for hours sometimes, at school, and now she can’t even identify him. Ugh. If she was used to complain, she would say it’s because  _ Advanced Personality Psychology _ occupies too much of the available space in her mind.

She struggles to find bits of memory that could help her putting a name on the messy hair and cute dimple smile.

The dimple smile… It had captured her attention when he had said his name…

No. No. Not the smile. She was angry… And then, it was the chocolate. And she’s just very tired from her week of revisions. This is why she can’t remember his name.

Nothing else.

But when the doorbell rings, her heart jumps to her ears. It takes all her self-control to refrain from swinging the wooden panel open.

“Yes?” The chillness, so contrasting to her cosy inside, burns the point of her nose as her eyes meet a very green stare. “Oh, Harry…”

She remembers his name, actually. Minds can be quite tricky.

Her hands cling to the doorknob without her notice, her body hiding in the introvert security of her home. All she can do is lower her eyes, in a very embarrassed way.

And she can’t even explain why.

The man’s smile falters a little, his eyebrows bow slightly. “Er- Am I- Am I bothering you?”

“What?”

Boy, he could speak louder.

Well, she could be a little less distracted too.

“I-” He hesitates, taking a step back.

This is when she notices that he is hiding something from her vision. And that she has kept him waiting for a good minute in the cold weather.

“Oh, I’m really sorry! I’m such a terrible neighbour. Where do I leave my brain some days?. If I just- You should probably- Oh well, what a  _ mess  _ I am.” Her tone is full of clumsy apologies, which brings his side smile back. “Come inside, it’s freezing here.”

She opens the door widely, and the winter wind hits her comfortable living room meanly, causing a window shutter to slam in some place of the house.

Harry has the common sense to close the door, pushing it with his feet as he gladly steps inside, amused by her sudden awkwardness.

Meanwhile, Hermione is still releasing her little moment of embarrassment with a flow of words. “I just rarely receive visits, you know, and they are mostly from colleagues who bring more material, so I do not have any Christmas cookie in the oven. It must sound horrible to you, but I don’t even have milk to make some hot chocolate. You’ve been so nice to me yesterday, what are you going to think of me now th-”

His hand on her shoulder makes her start.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, his eyes anchored in hers. “I don’t think anything about you except that you seem very nice.”

His smile is warm like a summer breeze. On the spot where he touches her clothes, her skin seems to be melting under the soft grip.

Her muscles relax.

He doesn’t think she’s a cruel neighbor, so everything’s fine.

“And we can still fix the whole thing about the cookies,” he adds, pointing with his chin toward the kitchen’s open door.

Is he offering to cook with her? It would be a disaster, she can’t even tell a spatula from a spoon. If he let anything of it slip in front of Mrs. Lupin, the whole neighborhood would know about it.

Last thing she wants is to be reputed as an unfamous cooker.

“I- I don’t think it’s- The fact is-” She holds her breath, blushing a little. “I was actually going to study.”

That did sound rude.

Harry’s smile vanishes, his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you. I just thought- I don’t even know what I thought.”

He grins sheepishly, hoping that his delusion is not too noticeable. He takes a step back, when he remembers about the secret object behind his back. Bringing his hands forward, he reveals a pretty pottery with chirping birds and butterflies carved on its surface.

“That’s- I know it probably can’t make up for the emotional attachment,” Hermione stares at the earthy vase in amazement: there was a world between Aunt Marjorie’s horrible trinket and the gift that her neighbor was holding out to her. “But, well, we broke yours, yesterday. It only seemed fair to get you another one.”

She feels his eyes on her face, and grabs the pot, her fingers tracing the reliefs. The little bumps tickle her skin.

Harry faintly clears his throat. “I guess that I should go now. Leave you to your studies.”

The dimple on his right cheek attracts her attention. It definitely is a cute dimple, that shakes Hermione from her surprise, only to remember that she was being very disagreeable to him.

“Oh, wait!” She bites her lip. Thinks about her uselessness in a kitchen. He probably assumes that she’s quite skilled, and he’ll be very deceived when he’ll realize the contrary. “This is- This is very thoughtful. Thank you.”

Harry’s eyes recover a bit of their sparkles. “It was Teddy’s idea,” he shrugs.

Something in his fleeing stare makes Hermione smile. You can’t lie to a Psychology student. “Oh, you know, I’ve always considered Teddy an incredible boy,” she smiles. Harry grins, maybe convinced that his little lie worked out. Hermione suddenly feels a wave of sympathy rolling in her chest for the messy haired godfather of his turbulent neighbor. One of those waves that pushes you to consider stuff you’re reluctant to do. “You know, about the studying, it can wait. Cookies are crucial in Christm-”

A phone rings, cutting her sentence midway. The man drops his stare to his jacket pocket, and extracts his flashing device from it.

“Talking about the dev- angel,” he mutters, pressing the green button with a smirk. “Teddy! Did you burn the house down?”

Hermione internally laughs: she has lived too long next to the Lupins to discard this possibility. But any amusement disappears from her traits at Harry’s creased brow and doubtful humming.

“I get it, buddy. I’m coming over.” He hangs up, and she somehow dreads a bad news. “Teddy is not feeling very well. I have to go.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll be able to study.”

He scratches his neck, and Hermione notices the muscles of his arms that stir his clothes. She becomes very conscious of the pot’s weight in her hands.

“Great,” she whispers, then bites her tongue. She had built up some courage for the cooking actually.

“Er- I’ll see you soon, then.”

With a few steps, he is out of the door.

The tea is now cold on the table, but Hermione doesn’t notice it. Not for a good fifteen minutes, during which she watches the ghost of his shadow on the door, and wonders when ‘soon’ will be.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione highlights a page of her textbook, murmuring the definition softly, hoping she’ll remember it. Memorizing has always been her strong suit, but when said mugging includs learning about a supposed theoretician who was absolutely barmy on several counts, she finds it ridiculous.

When she'll finally get a degree and have some status, she’ll make some serious changes in the psychology field.

 Huffing as her mind goes off track for the second time in a row, Hermione slaps herself. First, she had been thinking about the rare event of Harry stopping by, and now, she was thinking about her superiority over sexist researchers. Her eyes fall on the clock which announces she’s been dreaming for almost an hour.

“Focus. You’ve got this. Now, why do critics view statistical hypothesis testing as-” She’s cut off abruptly as the doorbell rings.

She can’t help it then; she groans. She severely doubts it can be Harry so it must be someone from work. Not expecting anyone, she’s tense as she walks to the door.

Peering through the whole, she lets out a breath of relief as she sees her neighbour, Harry. His eyes are cast upwards like he’s cursing the existence of Olympus, and there’s a hue of pink on his nose.

When she opens the door, it feels like deja-vu. She tucks a curl of hair behind her ear and stares at him expectantly.

"Hi!” He says loudly, wincing immediately. “Good morning.”

“Good morning….Do you want to come in?”

“Yeah. That would be nice.” Harry shoves his shoes and trails after Hermione like a puppy. “I was wondering if you-if you liked the vase.”

It’s obvious that he wanted to ask her something else, but she eases herself on the chair across him. She tucks her feet closer to her body and lets it go. “Oh. I did. Thank you. You didn’t have to, honestly.”

“I did.” He replies immediately. “I’m glad you like it. Teddy helped pick it out. He was very sorry about the whole mess.”

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence. Hermione considers if she should offer him food or perhaps, a drink. When he coughs awkwardly, she snaps her gaze to him

“Er-” Harry begins, and then laughs breathily. “This is so uncomfortable. I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Hermione's own surprise is mirrored on Harry’s face. “Your company is appreciated.”

“Right. Yours is too.” Harry stares at the room, face merging into shock. He does a double take, and Hermione almost laughs at the pure _dread_ he sports. It’s the face of a seer when the stars are aligned in a way she wished hadn’t occurred. “Please tell me there’s a Christmas tree somewhere.”

“I’m afraid not.” She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t lying the other day.”

Harry smiles at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m used to being a huge fan of the season. I’m surprised other people are not. May I ask you something, though?”

“Shoot.”

“Don’t you miss celebrating the festival?” Harry asks cautiously, already regretting his question, worried that his stress on the issue might irk her.

“Not really.” Hermione shrugs. “I told you yesterday why and I don’t really have the spirit for it. Truth be told, I wish I did. My parents don’t know what a total Grinch I am.”

“It doesn’t need to be like that!” Harry pipes up. “I’ll help you get your Christmas spirit back. It’ll be my gift to you. Please?” he adds when she stills looks unconvinced.

“I don’t know.”

Hermione thinks about the statistics of the opportunity. It would be nice, she reflected, having a Christmas tree up for once. Maybe, the change of decor would help her study more efficiently. She quickly constructs a row of pros and cons in her table, but her decision is made up as she sees that damnable dimples on Harry’s face -- which, honestly, should be illegal.

“You’ll help me, right? I have a Christmas tree on the cupboard and some ornaments so we don’t need to worry about that.”

“I will.” Harry jumps from the seat and shrugs off his coat. “Oh and Hermione? Remember when decorating, we go big or we go home.”

* * *

Hermione frowns at him and pouts.

It doesn’t do her any good as Harry continues to laugh, bending over and clutching his sides in a vain attempt to tranquilize the stiches. “Oh my _god_. You’re just so cute and smol.”

Her height has always been a subject of discussion. Even past twenty, people still refused to believe she was anything but a teenager. Just now, she had tried reaching the top tiers of the tree but, unable to do so thanks to her height, she has resorted to glaring at the branches. And obviously, Harry finds that particularly amusing.   

“I’m 5’2!” Hermione protests fiercely. “That’s a perfectly reasonable height.”

“For a fairy, maybe.”

The man coos when Hermione pouts again and, frustrated, she stretches, trying to reach the tip of the Christmas tree. Arms wrap around her waist and there’s a tug in her stomach - a protest against gravity before she’s suspended in air.  

Letting out a squeak, she cries. “Put me down!”

He laughs and she can feel the warmth of it on her lower back. “Put the ornament up first, Hermione!”

Floundering like a fish, Hermione hastily places the star and Harry sets her down, carefully. Scrambling away from him, she places a hand on her heart and glares at him. “Harry James Potter!”

Rubbing his neck, Harry provides her a sheepish smile. It never is a good sign when a woman called you by your full name - even if they do look as threatening as Tinkerbell. "Sorry. Seemed like you needed some help.”

“It’s fine. You just startled me.” Hermione claims, knowing that she’ll be rid of the feeling of his arms. Have they always been muscled? Now, she is just getting _distracted_.

After passing a reindeer ornament to her, Harry steps back to marvel their hard work, and she follows his example.

It’s not exactly what she would call a fairy tale Christmas aesthetic, but they did all they could with the limited decorations. And, it does look _good_ in its own way. There are multiple tiers of gold lights that blink every few seconds, complemented with accents of rosy baubles. Wrapped with red ribbons and holly, the tree surely can’t be called naked.

Nothing in the house can, really. A Santa Claus figure stares at them with beady eyes from his perch on the table. The cushions on the lounge got replaced by festive ones - a plump red one with a snowman in the middle articulating the words _Meowy Christmas!_ Banners strung with leaves and berries hang from the canopy.

A thrill of excitement shots down her spine. For the first time in years, her blood thrums with the joy of Christmas, and she revels in it.

The only hang up here, is that there is a lone stocking against the wall. Hermione mentally decides to buy it a companion. Her budding friendship with Harry implies that she would need a gift for him. Maybe, she could convince him to go shopping with her.

For now, she can imagine she is a princess in Disneyland. The string of lights above her certainly makes her feel like she is set up in a fantasy.

Funnily enough, the only decoration the house lacks, by the end of the morning, is mistletoe branches, and the both young people are careful to maintain that status.

 


	4. Chapter 4

She swings the door open at exactly ten in the morning. Harry’s hand remains suspended in air, most likely preparing himself to rap the door. 

He seems baffled to see her, as if her presence wasn’t expected at  _ her house _ . It's Pride and Prejudice all over again, she thinks. Except she never disliked him. It was quite the opposite emotion that consumed her body. Even when he broke her pot, she still found him kind and cu-  _ sweet _ .

“Good morning.” 

“Hi.” Harry chimes back, stupidly and winces at the response. “Good morning. You look nice.”

Hermione laughs, a beautiful sound that reverberates through him. “I literally just got up.”

Harry gasps, sidestepping her and shoving his shoes off. “I stick to my point. And, I’m shocked, Hermione.  _ Shocked _ is an understatement. Do you mean to tell me you just woke up? Eight hours after you were supposed to.” 

“It was all for a good reason.” Hermione protests, adamantly. “I read an article where they instruct people to give themselves a rest day once a week. So, I woke up at seven.”

“You said you just got up.”

“From the table.” Hermione clarifies. “I was studying.”

“ _ Well _ .”  Harry remarks sarcastically as he makes them a cuppa. Instead of the tea bag that he usually inserts, he sprinks a tablespoon of cocoa powder into their mugs. “That's a first.”

“What are you making?” 

“Hot chocolate, Princess.” 

Hermione’s eyes grow wide. “What did you just call me?” 

“Princess.” Harry repeats, unabashed by her admonishment. “It suits you well. The first time I saw you, I thought your hair looked like Princess curls so.” 

Stunned into silence, the most she can do is hum. “You know tea is better than hot chocolate, right? Tea fights cancer, all the while increasing your immunity, cardiovascular health, digestion, mental activity like improved concentration and focus and prolongs longevity. Don’t you agree with me?” 

Harry doesn’t seem fazed by her argument. In fact, the mask on his face is akin to smugness. “While all that may be true, hot chocolate contains more antioxidants than coffee and  _ tea _ . It lowers blood pressure. The antioxidant gallic acid is used to treat internal hemorrhages, prevents kidney disease and diabetes. The flavonoids help your body process nitric oxides which improve blood flow and prevents the formation of clots. Shall I go on?” 

Beyond awed at his list, Hermione could only gape. Men like Harry, by their looks, managed to inflict cardiac arrests on a woman like herself simply by a  _ glance _ . To discover that said man was intelligent as well was the cherry on the cake. 

“How do you know all that?” Hermione asks, grasping for something witty to say but fails at it, rather spectacularly and wants to scream for ten hours straight. The approach of her question was blunt enough that it could be considered as offensive which in no way did Hermione mean for it to sound. 

Thankfully, Harry waves the comment away. “I’m skilled at my craft, Hermione. A gentleman like me has many skills and talents.” 

“Indeed.” 

The underlying analysis of his sentence makes her swallow, nervously and makes her hyper aware of their positions. He’s barely a few inches away. Not a very appropriate distance for just a neighbour. Retracing her steps, Hermione misses the look of undisguised dismay that washes over his face. 

By the time, she looks back at him, the moment is long gone. Setting their glasses on the countertable, Harry flashes her a dimple. “Better go get changed. Today includes another outdoor activity.” 

Wishing she could groan out loud because that sounds far from fun, Hermione nods sluggishly and departs, pulling on some boots. Looping a scarf adorned with gold and red, Hermione makes a half hearted attempted to straighten her hair but when her hair reverts back to its original momentum, she realizes it’s a futile attempt and shuts her door. 

“Thank you for the hot chocolate.” Hermione tries to express her gratitude, hoping she hasn’t managed to leave an unimpressed reaction on her neighbour. Judging on past experiences, she wouldn’t put it past her. Conversations in the real world short circuited her speech. 

Harry doesn’t reward her with a response, instead bestowing her with a smirk. “Let’s go. Teddy’s thrilled. I’m worried about making him wait for some more time.” 

“Teddy’s coming?” Hermione says with excitement, shrugging on her coat. The blue haired child often light up her day with his childish glee. Seeing him, always, causes her lips to tug upwards to form a grin. Perhaps, it was the motherly side of her but children were beacons of lights even on especially heavily exhausted days. 

Harry sighs dramatically like a man who opens the fridge, only to woefully discover it empty of his favorite contents. “I knew you liked Teddy more.”

“I like you both equally.” Hermione teases which is a lie if she’s being honest. While Teddy is a light in her life, Harry is soon becoming the sun to her world. Ever since she was a kid, she was the type of person who ran headfirst into relationships. She had fallen too soon and too hard. It hardly surprised her that her actions repeated with Harry but she felt a bit different with him in the room: confident, relaxed and jovial. 

Harry rolls his eyes and tugs her with a hand outside where they find a cross Teddy Lupin, arms folded over his chest and a single eyebrow raised that glared at them. If looks could kill, they would still be very much alive for despite Teddy’s best efforts, he still hadn’t lost his cute and chubby cheeks. It was like a teddy bear insisting he had committed a grave crime. 

Hermione coos his name, wrapping the boy in a hug and spinning around. “How’s my favorite boy?” 

“Why don’t you ask Harry?” He replies impishly, showcasing his milk teeth. 

She taps him on the nose. “You’re my favorite everything. Your uncle prefers the worst drinks like hot chocolate.” 

His eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Hot Chocolate is the bestest best!” 

A mock look of disappointment plasters on her face. “I highly regret befriending this family.” 

“Nope!” The boy says looking unnaturally gleeful for his age. “You love us.” 

Hermione narrows her eyes at the boy and when his smile is a mask of excellent innocence, she switches direction...right in time to hear the shriek of delighted laughter from the boy in her arms as a snowball whipped across her face. 

Her eyes shut at the impact but once they open, they are deadly. “Harry. James. Potter. You have three seconds to get the hell away from me or else I will stab you so-”

Teddy giggles and burrows his face into her armpit. Caught off guard, Hermione sets the boy down, blocking his ears with a hand as she mouths a string of latin words to the sniggering man in front of her. 

“Is that a challenge?” Harry spreads his arms wide open, ducking down to obtain a fistful of snow. “I doubt you’ll have much success.” 

Hermione, for all her remarkability, has never been unable to back down from a challenge. It was her fatal flaw, some would say. Others would take it upon themselves to dare her with strange conquests. 

There was only one line she daren’t cross; the education line. People had foolishly took it upon themselves to convince her to give up studying, fail and interfere with  _ faculty _ . Would you believe the horror of it? Hermione certainly couldn't. It hadn’t mattered then, this quirk of accepting even the wildest and most ridiculous dares. Nothing did, really, when it interfered with studies. A firm believer in the truth that studying was prime and above all, she couldn’t let teenagers come in the way of her goal. 

Yet, there were times when she was guilty of attending a party and getting drunk. It happened only once but the experience was vile enough to make A time when she had jumped in the pool from the first floor because someone had riled her up. To be fair, it wasn’t that much of a  _ height _ but still enough for several jaws to drop. 

And, that time when she had sworn off tea for a  _ month _ . She still got nightmares over that one. 

And, so when Harry stood there with an armful of snow, Hermione wasn’t merely considering participating in the fact, she stood analysing strategies and planning her victory dance. 

“Teddy.” She says, hushed for this might be a top secret mission. The kite needed for triumph was dancing right in front of her...if she could just maneuver it to her advantage. With years on education that stressed on human behaviour, Hermione has enough confidence in her ability of analyzing people. She  _ knows  _ she can win. 

“Do you want to join my team? I’ll buy you pancakes.” She adds smartly for if she knows anything, it’s that a Lupin cannot and will not refuse desserts. It goes against their morals. “I’ll buy you  _ blueberry  _ pancakes. With  _ extra  _ maple syrup.” 

Based on the way his smirk decorates her face, Hermione knows she’s succeeded. Masterfully weaving her  _ elaborate  _ bid-pancakes for his cooperation- she’s secured a member who she knows-without a shred of uncertainty- will not betray her. 

Teddy shakes her hand, growing serious like a businessman on his first day of work. Hermione exchanged a nod with him and looks at Harry who seems wary that she just had a conversation with his impish nephew. 

“Hermione?” He begins, apprehensive, stepping away even though she’s empty handed and he has a weapon of snow. “Are you going to join?” 

Careful, precise steps. Nephew and neighbour both descend the steps. After all, you can’t win a war on uneven terrain. 

“Harry-” She states nervously, manipulating the timely case of events. He doesn’t know her the mechanism of the way her gears work in her head.  _ She can win. She will win. She is Hermione Granger.  _ The man looks at her captivated, waiting for her next move. 

It’s not a very intelligent move for the next second, Hermione yells, “ _ Run _ !” to Teddy before she uses his flabbergasted movements to her advantage. Running like the devil’s on her heels and immediately, gasping because her lungs are weak things, she presses herself against a wall, sinking to the ground and capturing a mouthful of snow. Rolling it on her palm, she repeats the process and readies herself for battle. 

Harry was  _ so  _ going down.

* * *

Blue lips and shaky hands were the result of playing with snow a few hours later. Despite her hands being practically immobile- She couldn’t even  _ bend  _ her fingers- there was nothing more satisfying than running around while screaming bloody murder.

There was a part of her that longed to return to her comforters and pull on her special winter socks - Christmas flea ones that had reindeers painted on them but it soon faded as another snowball pelted and smacked Harry’s face. 

Despite his insistence, he was terrible at the game, constantly attacked by his nephew and Hermione. In fact, at the beginning, he just rested on the ground and watched the clouds in an overly dramatic manner. 

After they had flung another snowball at his groaning mouth, Harry had resolved to best them-or at least, hit them  _ once-  _ but his efforts proved vain. 

She can see his mop of hair behind a car that resembles a blanket of snow and wonders what’s next. In the same trapped position as he is, Hermione can’t risk giving away her cover.

Turmoil takes root in her, obnoxious enough that she only hears the incomer far too tardy. It’s the snapping of a branch that makes the following events appear in a sedated motion. Panic wills her up, instinct causes her to turn, and fate desires the first catalyst to be set into motion. 

Harry stumbles thanks to the branch and Hermione tries to steady him which is  _ pointless.  _ Momentum and gravity grips them both and tugs them downwards. Harry, the precious man, tries to save her at the very least but all that he manages to do is elevate the damage. Both of them land on the ice with a sharp crash. 

“Ooof.” Hermione grumbles, glaring at him but soon, softening as his eyelashes flicker at her like a giraffe. It’s spectacular that anyone could be so undeniable adorable. He had long eyelashes, she thinks dazed, hardly aware about her surroundings. 

Perhaps, she should move her leg, the one that’s locking the boy against her. It’s very ridiculous, absolutely barmy and not at all like her. 

“Hermione?” He breathes, a questioning look in his eye and she wonders if sleep deprivation isn’t a hoax after all for his eyes might,  _ might  _ have flickered to her lips for a second. 

She steals the moment’s joy, wishing she could capture it and relieve it a thousand times for it feels like something she would want to remember. Her heart is beating unnaturally fast, a trait he’s yet to catch upon him and to think it’s because of  _ him _ , of a man she hardly knows. 

And, it’s then that the  _ Oh  _ settles in. The ‘Oh’ that girls dread to think about for it brings a whole bout of side effects. The  _ Oh  _ that she might find this man  _ desirable _ . 

It was insane. 

Positively insane. 

And yet.

Yet, she can’t look away from his eyes - emerald, a trapped image of evergreen forests and vivid leaving her breathless and reminiscent about growing pastures that blew in England. She’ never been much of a photographer or painter but the longing to sketch out the shocked expression etched on his face along with his slightly parted lips is salient.

Then, then his mouth opens and she realises what a complete and utter fool she  _ is  _ for this is her neighbour, her  _ friend  _ and she’d just been lying on top of him without his consent having been stunned into dumbness. Scrambling off him, her body rubs against the ice creating friction. 

“Oh my God- _ shit-  _ I wasn’t-I’m a disaster,  _ putain _ .” Hermione swears, backing away like Harry’s a wild animal who accidentally provoked. “I didn’t mean to- I’m.” 

“Um.” Harry states eloquently, brushing off the snow off his pants. “It’s honestly okay. I - It’s my fault.” 

“You didn’t sit on me!” 

Harry blushes and tucks his lips inwards embarrassed. “I would have done the same thing. God,  _ no _ ,  that came out wrong. Not that I don’t want to sit on you but also,  _ fuck.  _ I short circuit when I panic and I’m rambling and can we just not talk about this?” 

Hermione wishes she could escape the awkward silence that hangs over them like fog. “I-It’s alright. Yeah.” 

They stand there for a minute or two, neither able to hold the other’s gaze, infinitely afraid to even think about how the contact might have sparked a tremor in the other. It’s times like this when Hermione has the maddening urge to flee and sink in her bed. Beginning a conversation is hard enough, sustaining it is a whole other story. It’s like looking at a mountain but then, having to  _ climb  _ it. 

She’s delved deep in her lame excuses of social interaction when a cheerful giggle splits the air and the pair of them turn, the evolution of instincts dictating their movements and their denseness, apparently because they don’t’ have the common sense to imagine what might happen in a battlefield- a battlefield that has a ten year old kid who’s special expertise is causing havoc. 

They don’t have time to run, to scream or run from the monster who’s flinging balls of snow on them at a million miles per second. 

At least, Teddy didn’t betray just her. The boy, future spy and man who would write ‘How To Be A Crook’ 101’ turned on  _ both  _ of them. 

Spoiler Alert: Harry and Hermione surrender.. 


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing she does when the steady and loud pounding of her headache registers is swear. Despite the numerous books, self care books in particular that promote positivity especially in the morning, lining her shelf, she finds herself victim of not promoting the principle of a healthy lifestyle. 

Her voice comes out as a rasp and she idly bounces the thought of finally singing like Chloe Kohanski and Miley Cyrus, but her throat resists the formation of a few syllables, so she disregards the fantasy. 

Burrowing under the covers as tremors rack her frame, she coughs. Once, twice, thrice. 

And, then swears once and only once because she doesn’t have the energy to follow it up with another colorful word, much to her dismay. 

Her eyes slink shut and the lilac scent of her bedsheets lull her into a soundless lullaby. Rocking with shivers, and with a clenched jaw to ward off another coughing fit, the illusion of peace sent only by the season of winter carries Hermione to slumber. 

* * *

When she awakes, a few hours later, she wonders if there’s a burglar in her house. There’s a substantially loud racket in her kitchen. The concerning matter is Hermione doesn’t care. Her head is positively swimming which is absolutely dreadful if she wasn’t, in fact, hallucinating. 

Groaning as her feet pad across the floor, Hermione indulges in the fantasy of passing a stern dialogue to whoever disrupted her sleep. Perhaps, the intruder was a blessing in disguise as she now, severely, realized she needed to study. Revised, only, eight times, she lacked the self confidence required for passing the test. 

“Harry?” She says, stunned, pausing at the foot of the staircase. 

For it isn’t a robber nor a murderer but her neighbour, Harry who greets her with his infamous dimple cheeked smile and green eyes. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, offering a radial view of the brown glistening skin. 

“Hi!” He blinks, waving a spoon in her face, an attempt to greet. When he notices her fixed look, his eyes glance down at the silverware in his hand. “I, uh, was making soup.” 

Hermione stares at him. “Um.” 

An immediate motherly look washes his face and with a tone of horror, Harry fusses, “You’re sick, go back to bed!” 

“I’m fine. I need to revise.” Hermione argues, already walking towards the kitchen, grabbing a book on the nearby desk. 

The cough that trailed her declaration helped prove her point significantly. “Look, I’m perfectly ha-happy. Why are you making soup?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s my mother’s famous soup. Always helps me when I’m on a cold. I don’t make it as well as she does but the main ingredients should make you feel slightly better, if anything.” 

Hermione smiles at him, a touched smile that brightens the room. “Thank you. You’re the sweetest.” 

Red blooms on Harry’s neck like roses in a greenhouse. Pride erupts in Hermione’s chest, a fiery little dragon, claiming victory for eliciting a flustered reaction. 

Harry mutters his gratitude under his breath. “Get to sleep, yeah? I’ll wake you up when the soup’s done. You can study then.” 

“Revise.” Hermione corrects, shuffling on her feet as she ascends the steps. “And, Harry? Thank  _ you _ .” 

* * *

“Mione?  _ Fuck _ , you’re burning up.” Harry whispers and the volume sends another pang of pain through Hermione. 

Nausea rises from the pit of her stomach and fills her mouth, drawing an empty gag. Not capable of much thought, she simply hums. 

“Can you sit up for a second? The soup’s still warm. Mione?” 

There’s one thing that Hermione is known for-her buck head stubbornness. It provided a favorable characteristics in debates and very few managed to spar verbally with the prodigy for more than a few minutes. True to his credit, however, after much persuasion, Harry convinces her to sit up. 

Blearily blinking up at him for he’s nearly a foot taller than her, she doesn’t protest when the spoonful of soup travels to her mouth, without her volition. Hermione sags against the bed frame, swallowing a few spoons. Tears flicker behind her eyelids like lamps as the heat stings her throat. Forcing herself to digest it, she’s relieved when Harry keeps the bowl on the table, at last. 

“Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up later.” 

His voice is melodious and warm and she’s tempted to listen to him but with much difficulty, she recounts his earlier promise. “Revise.” 

“You can’t even  _ open  _ your eyes.” Harry remarks, a combination of exasperation and amusement. “How do you plan on  _ revising _ ?” 

In response, Hermione gestures for her book. Sighing, Harry stands up and jogs down the stairs before he returns. Firmly pushing her hand down, he scans the pages. The whole book,  _ Advanced Educational Psychology  _ is colored in fluorescent yellow and orange- a fact that makes him grin. 

Unlike her textbooks, his pages were covered in doodles- of mythical dragons and  _ yes _ , puppies- with various texts from his best friend, Ron. 

_ “ _ _ Trait emotional intelligence or Trait emotional self efficacy refers to “a constellation or behaviour dispositions and self-perceptions regarding a-”  _

“You don’t-don’t have to read for me.” Hermione manages, trying to secure her hold on the book. 

“S’alright.” Harry continues reading, after throwing her a charming smile. “Can’t have the star Princess exhaust herself, now, can I?” 

Hermione’s glad she’s sick for a moment, solely because she can chalk up to the blush that stains her cheek on the fever. 

And, Harry continues to read about emotional intelligence. Each word was submerged in that British accent Hermione’s come to love for the reaction it ignited on her skin - rows of goosebumps, adds to the challenge of focusing on the quality of the lesson.

Eventually giving up, she enjoys the way the man in front of her pronounces his  _ r’s  _ and  _ l’s _ . It was hard to believe that men like this, indeed existed. Men who fed her soup and read her illegible notes. It appeared that some men, outside the fictional world, were pretty great too. Her last thought before she falls asleep is Harry. 

* * *

Ringing blares through her lucid haze, jolting her from her nap. Hermione rubs her eyes and yawns, a mellow gold light shining and wrapping her form. 

There’s another ring and Hermione picks up the phone, stifling another yawn. 

“Uncle Harry! How was your first time being on TV?” 

“Hello?” Hermione asks groggily, eyes growing as round as saucers when she looks at the phone. She’d assumed it was her phone but that was ridiculous because it wasn’t even her ringtone. In a lapse of judgement, she’d answered  _ Harry’s  _ phone. 

Embarrassment and guilt flood through her blood. It soon is diffused by curiosity for Teddy’s words take meaning. 

“Aunt Hermione? Is that you?” 

“It’s me.” 

“Are you and Uncle Harry finally getting married, now?” 

Hermione chokes on air and coughs loudly. “What? Where did you get that idea from? Did Harry say anything? Never mind. No. The answer is  _ no _ .” 

“Bummer.” Teddy’s disappointed and childish voice grits through the bungled up connection. 

“What do you mean  _ bummer _ ?” 

“Uncle Harry has a cr-” 

“Mione?” Harry’s puzzled voice drowns out the rest of Teddy’s sentence which was the  _ real bummer _ because Hermione was on edge. She’d half a mind to ask Harry to wait just so Teddy could finish but smiling sheepishly, Hermione hands him his phone. “It’s Teddy. Sorry, I answered. Thought it was my phone.” 

Harry’s eyes widen. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was  _ sick  _ on the way nausea grips him. Along with his red face. “Did he say anything about me? Did he know you were speaking?” 

“Yes.” Hermione replies warily. “Why?” 

His face immediately collapses in utter repose which adds to her confusion. “No reason. Hang on a sec’, yeah?..... Hey, bud….. I didn’t! Your Uncle Harry’ll talk to you later, okay? Mione’s sick and she needs the doctor…..I’m an amazing doctor, you rascal….Love you too.” 

Hermione stands from the bed, rubbing the weeds of the lasting headaches. Brushing her hair which is a lost cause, she ties it with a band. 

“Harry?”  

“Yeah?” 

Hermione wrings her hands together, staring him straight in the eye. “Did you have to go somewhere today?” 

Harry winces. “Did Teddy say-”

“Can you answer the question? Where were you supposed to go?” 

“I-Yes.” Harry draws a long breath and looks up at the ceiling, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “It wasn’t a major thing. Had an interview. They wanted me to cook something for them.” 

“Where were you supposed to have the interview?” 

“Buzzfeed?” 

Hermione rubs her eyes. “Please don’t tell me you passed up Buzzfeed to take care of me?” 

Harry looks outraged at any other scenario. “It’s just  _ Buzzfeed _ .” 

“Exactly!  _ Buzzfeed _ .” Hermione throat protests the loud vocal and she visibly winces. Harry’s at her side in an instant. “You should have gone. I can’t even begin to understand. You’ll regret-” 

“I won’t regret anything.” Harry holds her gaze and adds, fiercely. “You’re more important than any of those things.” 

Hermione chest heaves as she exhales, shakily. Somehow, Harry had managed to claim title of best friend, crush and person who proclaimed the most romantic words ever said to  _ her  _ in a few days. 

Opinions mattered to her which wasn’t very healthy and she’d gotten better at blocking out negative criticism on her teeth, her brains. An excellent feeling from someone she thought of greatly nearly sent her weeping. 

Hermione memorizes his face for a heartbeat longer than a friend would, speechless beyond repair. 

“Thank you.” She knows the words aren’t adequate enough. Nothing will be. 

“S’not a problem.” Harry responds and his words are laced with gentleness as if it’s  _ more  _ than enough. 

Perhaps, she was still dreaming. If dreams did indeed, take shape, Harry would live amongst fairytales. He was too  _ good,  _ too  _ kind.   _ to be true. Maybe, Harry was merely an apparition or a figment of her imagination for there wasn’t a possibility in all the realms of the world that Harry would look at her with such fondness and love. 

But he was. 

And,  _ fuck _ , if she wasn’t screwed. 

Biting her lip, she takes a step back, missing the disappointment that flashes across Harry’s face for a nanosecond before he masks it away. 

“Want to watch a Christmas movie?” 

Hermione’s hesitance is not abundant yet present. She had  _ studied  _ and  _ revised.  _ The exams were a couple of months away, though. Surely, she ought to-

“If you want to study, then we can do that.” 

It’s the use of  _ we  _ that spurs her choice of an answer. “How about several movies?” 

* * *

“Home Alone 1 is way better than Home Alone 2.” Harry states, scrolling through his phone. Showing the list of movies on his phone, he asks Hermione, “What are we watching first?”

“The crime is way better in Home Alone 2.” Hermione mimics, weaving a carefully crafted debate. “The pranks are ridiculous, surprisingly funny and they have the best toy story. How do you  _ not  _ like that?” 

Harry laughs. “Have I ever told you how intelligent you are? You know how to appeal to my mind but nope, you can’t change my mind. I’m adamant in the belief that Home Alone 1 is unbeatable. Now, choose. Which movie?” 

Hermione squints at the screen. “I don’t know. You’re asking a bisexual to choose something. This is going to take forever. You’re better at Christmas movies. You choose.”  She admits reluctantly. It would be a lie if she confessed his reaction would not deter her. 

“Well, love, you’re talking to a fellow bisexual. I want to say everything.” 

Hermione grins at him. “You’re amazing, you know that, right?” 

“It would help my ego if you kept saying it.” 

“Did you know that the origin of ego is from Latin? It came from literally ‘I’ in the nineteenth century.” 

“Mione.” Harry lets out a weak chuckle. “That’s all fascinating but _ which movie? _ ” 

“Let’s watch all but in alphabetical order. So, stream  _ A Christmas Carol  _ first.” 

“This is why we make a good team.” 

Hermione hides her smile as she walks towards the kitchen, Harry following behind. 

“What are we doing?” 

“Popcorn?” 

Harry scrunches up his face and pouts. The sentiments are reflected on Hermione’s face. 

“How about tea  _ and  _ popcorn?”

A rush of affection for Harry consumes her. There wasn’t an honorable man who disliked tea. “Yes. We could have a sleepover or something. Build a fort, later on?” 

“How about  _ now _ ?” 

* * *

The fort was an absolute  _ disaster _ . Every spare linen, including Hermione’s long Russian coats and bedsheets- were thrifted to form a structure that tethered shoddily. They inspect the fort with great pride, however. It wasn’t strong enough to take on a rival army but seemed perfect for the two of them.

Harry crawls in and Hermione looks away, blushing as his butt is shoved in her face. She was not  _ looking _ . She  _ wasn’t _ . 

Under the canopy of fairy lights that twinkle, Harry threw a blanket of hand knitted wool over Hermione. Mug in hand, they marvel at their creation. One of Hermione’s book cabinets support the fabric, included coincidentally, of course. 

They crawl towards a common sofa, wondering if this was a good idea, after all. They felt like adults concluding the observation on the way their backs grumbled. Traitorous. Undependable and  _ painful  _ backs. 

“May I read this?” Harry asks, eyes fixed on a shiny book. After admiring the summary, he passes a smile, “Romance and princes are my  _ thing _ .”

Hermione nods, excitedly like a kid drugged on candy. 

“When we got the letter in the post, my mother was ecstatic. She had already decided that all our problems were solved, gone forever.” Harry’s lips twitch upwards. “The big- _ wish we could have this kind of luck in the real world- _ BIG HITCH in her brilliant plan was me. I didn’t think I was a particularly disobedient daughter, but this was where I drew the line.” 

Hermione lets out a snort when Harry wiggles his eyebrows at her imitating a walrus. “Am I a disobedient daughter, Mione?”

“Read the book, will you?” 

So he did. For nearly an hour, Hermione heard, with  great rapture, the inevitable love story between a prince and a commoner. The Selection was one of her favorite series. It had just the right amount of romance and suspense. It was the ninth time she wished she lived in a palace that contained a magnificent library within its walls. 

His phone rang and Harry stops abruptly, in the middle of dialogue which was the greatest tragedy. He shuts the book and crawls to the TV. 

“What are you doing?” Hermione crosses her arms and stares him down. “Aren’t you going to pick up your phone?” 

“Nope.” Harry responds, having an internal battle with the buttons on the TV. “It was an alarm. We’re going to watch a movie now. Like we were supposed to do an hour ago.” 

“Can’t we just read?” Hermione whines. “It’s much better.” 

“What are we going to do with the popcorn?” 

Hermione debates the issue with herself. “Fine. We’re going to read as soon as we finish the movie and that’s that..” 

“Whatever you want, Princess. I recommend watching at least five movies, though.” Harry tugs his phone out of his pocket. “It’s very Christmassy.” 

Hermione fixes him with a glare. “I’ll watch. As long as you admit Home Alone 2 was better.” 

He throws her a wounded look and clutches his heart with a hand. “I feel so  _ hurt _ . But because I want to watch the movie, I’ll say Home Alone 2….was better than certain other movies-like Home Alone 1. However, know that I will never forget how mean-”

She huffs. “Just play the movie, Mr. Dramatic.” 

Swiping at the phone before he places it on the floor, Harry scoots closer to Hermione and leans his head against her shoulder. 

“Happy Movie Watching.” 

Hermione swallows and hopes it wasn’t as loud as she imagined it to be. “You too.” 

If her voice appeared choked, Harry didn’t appear to notice. She resists the need to adjust, wary that her movement might push him away. His head tickles her a little and Hermione bites her lip. Taking a peek at his hair, she looks away, her head swimming with the conscious desire to ruffle it. 

Willing herself to exercise some control, Hermione tries to focus on the melody bouncing around them. 

“Why does it feel like we’re watching a horror movie instead of a Christmas one?” 

“I guess it’s symbolism.” Hermione whispers back. It makes her think about times when she was a child and she’d play pass the whisper. She wonders if Harry and her could be friends as children. She’d like to think so. “At the end of the movie-” 

“No spoilers.” Harry interrupts, grabbing the bowl of popcorn and passing it to her. 

“Haven’t you watched this yet?” 

Harry shakes his head, hair tickling her skin. “Not this film, nope.” 

“How can you-” Hermione begins, pulling away from him slightly. “Never mind. You’re in for a treat.” 

True to her word, Harry discovered that he was rather ridiculous and wished he had watched the movie earlier. A fond fan of magic, he was beyond delighted and fascinated as Scrooge flew. The elements of magic kindled the inner child in him. 

Hermione would probably be set on fire if she said the light in his eyes wasn’t endearing. 

As the credits for the third movie flashed, Hermione shut her eyes. Darkness had winnowed in, almost an hour ago but exhaustion only seemed to weigh her down now. Eyes burning, she drops her back on the floor, side eyes memorising the names of the actors. 

“Want me to switch it off?” Harry asks, stretching as much as the proximity allows. After confirming the time, he tells her, “It’s almost nine.” 

“Night’s young.” Hermione mumbles, face pressed onto the cold layer. “I’m watching.” 

His chuckle is warm reminding her of the taste of hot chocolate drunk on a winter’s night. He drops his body next to her with a  _ thump _ . 

“How you’ll see?” She slurs her words together, hazy with warmth.  

“You’re short, Princess.” Harry claims which it a total lie. She’s  _ 5’2,  _ a perfectly admirable height. If the rest of the world comprised of giants, it wasn’t her issue. 

“Am not.”  Hermione nestles into him, his warmth practically a soundless lullaby. And, into the arms of Morpheus, she crept. 

The next morning she woke up to Harry’s snores and noticed her leg around his waist with his arm wound around her lower back. Psychology dictated their involuntary actions so she didn’t panic. 

It was funny to notice how he seeked her warmth. The blanket was draped around her form while Harry remained bare, excluding his cotton shirt. As the blanket suspended on his body, her fingers brushed his skin, inducing electrifying shocks through bone and marrow. 

Hermione  _ carefully  _ strived not to think about how she didn’t untangle herself from him despite being awake for minutes. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

How much- 50 grams. Then add the milk before the- Or the eggs? No, I already added the eg- The egg whites are still missing- Whip into peaks…”

Hermione rubs her face, leaving marks of flour on her reddened skin. The morning sun rays filter through the windows, revealing particles of her attempt to cookies swirling in the air. The whole looks pretty, like a path of miniature stars floating in the atmosphere, but she has no time to get lost in contemplation.

Baking is even harder than what she thought.

Is the chocolate supposed to stick to the pan this much? This is going to turn out a real disaster.

But can anything made of sugar and eggs taste bad?

Hermione dips one of her fingers in the dough, and brings it to her tongue. “Sugar! I forgot the sugar!”

And she still has to add the teaspoon-and-a-half of vanilla flavor, the partially melted butter, the chunks of chocolate… She bought a pack of chocolate chips, will that be good?

She slams her hands on her apron in frustration, sending another spiral of flour in the air.

Her stupid ego convinced her to do this, but she’s very tempted to throw everything to the garbage bin. She wanted to show Harry that she can make cookies, to stop his teasing.

So when he left, this morning, looking as clumsily embarrassed as she’d ever seen him -- and she was not far from that point, either: she swore to never talk about-  _ that _ with him -- she had decided to prepare some treats.

But not only for herself, or for Teddy and him. After a perfectly successful trip to the grocery store, she has now produced enough dough to make cookies that will feed all the kids of the neighborhood until New Year’s Eve.

And it’s the first time she ever bakes in her life.

_ You and your extremely disproportionate ego. _

She takes in a deep breath. And it’s a big mistake.

The dough dust tickles her throat, and makes her buckle to cough. She has to get out of the kitchen in hope to get herself together, but brings some of the mess with her in the living room. From her apron drips a mix of egg yolk and sticky chocolate.

Her eyes are puffy and aqueous when she manages to recover a barely steady calmness. When she lays them on the walls around her, she smiles. They are covered in golden Christmas garlands, those that she fixed with Harry.

She purses her lips.

This man erupted in her life all of a sudden, and already changed a good deal in it. Isn’t this one of the key points of  _ Psychology of Women _ ’s chapter 7?

That thought scares her. She can’t possibly-

A joyful knock on the door echoes in the house, and sends Hermione’s heart to join her mind in its messy stampede. She skips toward the entrance, in a fretful hurry, completely oblivious of her reddish eyes, which give the impression that she was crying.

“Good m-” Harry’s greeting gets stuck in his throat. “Are you ok?”

Suddenly aware of how she must look like in this precise moment, Hermione blushes deeply. “I- I am,” she stutters. “It’s just- I was-”

But no words come to her rescue. The only proofs to display that she’s ok are her tangled hair and stained clothes. A big help.

“You look like-” Harry’s finger brushes a line of flour on her cheek, and she feels like dying right there, right then. “Like an Amerindian who’s painted their face for a battle.”

His smile reminds her of hot honey.

“I didn’t expect to see you again this early,” she voices her surprise, and then bites her tongue at what he probably thinks she implied:  _ after we woke up… all tangled this morning. _

Hermione didn’t think she’d ever feel that moment of lost thoughts which happens to the heroines of the fairytales she used to read as a teen. She has always seen herself as very pragmatic, and the memory of her long university studies does surely not allow a lack of reality.

Still, she lets a pause wrap her away from any other stupid comment she might want to utter.

Until a bitter smell raises in the air.

“Is there somethin-?”

Without even finishing his sentence, Harry dashes forward, toward the kitchen, and nearly fells to the floor as he steps on a pud of melted sugar and egg. Hermione, quick to follow him, has just the time to stop his fall by hugging him by the waist.

However, none of them have enough time to blush at the act, neither do they really register it, because they grab the oven’s handle a fraction of second later.

From the open door, a thick, grayish smoke reverses itself in the room, reaching the ceiling in an opaque column, and prompts Harry to precipitate himself toward the window. Once he draws the curtains to a side, and thrusts the glass panels open, the atmosphere becomes more liveable.

Not figuratively speaking, still.

Hermione eyes her missed and messed attempt a sugar cookies, and desperates herself. If she can’t manage to bake those, what will she do with the gingerbread and chocolate dough? Has she even prepared them properly?

The jolly gnome she had placed on the counter is covered in soot, and the golden candles that she had placed on top of a pile of old recipe books are quickly melting. She moves them to another place, afraid that they would get too damaged.

Harry, in his corner, stays silent.

The whole scene looks like a funeral. The funeral of Christmas spirit on 32, Puddifoot Street. Right as it was being born.

The man clears his throat, “It- it happens all the time, you know,” His voice is full of a heartwarming empathy. “There’s no need to- well, to get that upset.”

Hermione focuses on him, wondering what on Earth can make him guess that she’s upset. She thought she was good at hiding feelings. But a tear runs down her cheek to her chin, and she realizes that she is crying freely.

With the back of her hand, she wipes the salty water away, only managing to enlarge the smudged stain of flour on her face.

“It’s- er-” Harry struggles to repress a smile, and grabs a tissue from his pocket. “It’s hard to bake cookies, so don’t worry.” With a rapid hand movement, he erases the mark on Hermione’s cheek, and she blushes deeply at that sudden gesture.

This simple moment reminds her of how close they’ve grown in the last days. And that they have slept in the same bed last night

Drawing back a little, she asks, just for the sake of changing the topic, “You always carry tissues in your jacket’s pocket?”

The man raises his eyebrows.

_ Great, now he probably thinks I’m one of the weirdest people on Earth. _

“As someone who wears glasses,” he still answers, “And who doesn’t want to see the world through a constant fog- yeah. I do.”

She nods, as if he had just explained her a tough concept of science which she finally grasped. “I thought… tissues were bad for glasses? Can’t they scratch them?”

_ The weirdest. _

Harry’s surprised expression relaxes in a smile. “That may be true, but do I look like someone who follows other people’s indications?”

Hermione shrugs. “Sometimes, you ought to. If they make sense.”

But her neighbor doesn’t seem to share her point of view, “I make a point in contradicting people, most of the time. You must have understood it, by now.”

Hes says so with such a heavy comical twist to his tone that she can’t hide her smile.

“So Teddy got his stubbornness from you,” she says, pointing an accusatory finger at Harry’s chest, and laughing heartily.

“Does he make you suffer a lot?”

“Me? I’m just glad I don’t teach him anything this year! All the teachers complain.”

“It can’t be true,” Harry denies, “My godson’s an angel.”

Hermione bites her lip to suppress a chuckle, “That didn’t seem to be your opinion, some days ago.”

“Yeah, but I’m the only one who can complain about him.”

Unable to resist to the dimpled smile’s attack, Hermione snorts loudly, her cookie sorrow forgotten for the moment. “You know I love him.”

“You love us,” he corrects her.

And by  _ us _ he could mean Teddy and him. Or  _ her and him _ . It was just  _ this morning _ that they woke up in the  _ same bed. _

_ Oh please. _

The smoke must be making her thoughts dysfunctional. That’s what happens, when you’re Hermione Granger, and don’t study for a day.

“Yeah. Of course I do. But Teddy’s the most adorable.”

“You say that only because I hit you in the face with that snowball.”

“You didn’t! I dodged it!”

Harry bursts into a loud laughter, “No, you didn’t, but that’s ok, because I still like you all clumsy.”

Deep in her chest, Hermione feels a garland of Christmas lights turning on, and heating her insides. “Oh.”

With that, the conversation falls, and none of the two knows how to pick it up. Harry’s gaze gets lost on the outside, while Hermione tortures the borders of her apron with her sticky fingers.

The burnt smell persists, and as the chilly air of this winter morning engulfs itself uninvitedly in the house, the young woman leaves the room to get a sweater. When she comes back, she has to face two problems.

The first one is Harry’s frown at her new attire. They have already had this conversation, so she knows what is coming. And neither the time, nor her mood, are right to host an argument over Christmas clothes.

And then...She now has to take care of the disaster that has become her kitchen. It will smell like fresh eggs and vanilla powder for about a month, judging by the color of the stains on the counter and ustensiles.

Without forgetting the smoke.

And, as if she needed it, there is a third issue: what to do with the remaining dough? Confident and enthusiast, she has started more of them than she can even remember, earlier today. And the sugar cookies were just the first attempt…

_ Ok Hermione, breathe in, breathe out. _

“I- I hate to do that-” she says, as she brings her hair together in a tight ponytail, “But I’m going to have to put a little order in here, so-”

Harry gets the point of her embarrassed request, and diverts his stare from her blue sweater to look at her straight in the eyes. He was going to bid her goodbye, resigned, but a mischievous grin curls his lips. “So, you’d like me to help you, but don’t know how to ask.”

This leaves the young woman with a hanging mouth for a hot second.

When she recovers from her astonishment, she shakes her head slightly, feeling her face go warm at the cheeks. “This- This is not what I meant-”

_ But- _ she desperately wants to add.

It would be nice to have a second pair of hands to clear the calamity zone. Especially if the pair of hands is his. 

“So, for the second time since we met, you’re ejecting me from your house? When I cooked you some soup yesterday?”

The hurt in his eyes looks quite genuine.

Only the thought of somebody like her ditching somebody like him makes Hermione feel ridiculous, and quite dumb. And considering the fact that he literally entered her house without needing her to open the door, they are past beyond the point of I’d-like-to-let-you-in-but-my-place-is-messy.

“Of course not!” she claims, now completely sure that this man’s entrance in her life can either have a very good or very bad outcome. “I just- don’t want to bother you with my mistakes.”

_ Or make a fool of myself in front of you. _

Thinking well about it, she already has. Several times.

Aunt Marjorie often said that her niece’s pride was only second to her clumsiness in the list of her fatal flaws.

“I’m staying,” Harry affirms, crossing his arms, “I still need to make up for the broken pot.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Are you going to bring that story forward for long?”

“ _ You _ should be the one taking advantage of it!” Harry answers with a chuckle. “But anyway, by what do we start, boss?”

Sighing dramatically -- a trait that was definitely  _ not _ part of her personality, some days ago -- she points toward half a dozen of bowls, varying in size, displayed on the kitchen counter. “If you think you can put those in the oven without carbonizing them, it’d be nice.”

“Are you going to help me?”

“I’d rather wash the dishes.”

“Fine.”

Two minutes later, Hermione, elbows deep in dish soap, thanks the stars for having sent her a broad-shouldered, chocolate-skinned cook as a provisory neighbor. But the realization that he is only provisory makes her sick to her stomach. 

What when Christmas will be over? He’ll go back to his own place, usual friends, normal life. And she’ll stay here, alone with her books and Crookshanks, stuck in memories of the fun they’re having.

But the images of yesterday already happen to fade between some mist. Was the day even real? She was sick, is it possible that she saw things that didn’t have the meaning she considered them to?

With the sponge, she attacks the chocolate-dirty pan. Maybe she’s just making up an inexistent story in her mind, and Harry’s being nice because they’re neighbors and caring for people seems to be his first priority in life.

_ Whatever. _

Each working actively, with, as a background noise, only the jingle of the adorning bells from the house in front, they don’t engage a conversation.

***

“Tadaa!”

Harry, with a bright smile stamped on his face, extracts the first successful batch from the ‘doors of sweet hell’, like he called them earlier.

Hermione, who by now is done with the dishes and has started scrubbing the egg puddles away from her tiles, raise from the floor.

“I don’t know what I would have done without you,” she whispers, pushing away a loose lock of her hair with her forearm. “Can we taste one?”

“Of course we can! We’re going to have hundreds of them, we better start eating them now,” Harry says, and the young woman can’t decide if he’s joking or being serious.

He is about to bit into one, when she stops him, “Wait! Wouldn’t Teddy want to join us?”

Faking a pout, the man lays the treat down, and take his phone out. After typing the Lupins’ house number, he puts the call on loudspeaker.

A bored voice answers, “Hello?”

“Buddy!” Harry roars, “Fancy eating a cookie with us?”

“Us?” repeats the Lupin kid. “I thought you were supposed to go to the grocery store! Where are you?” But he seems to realize that his question is useless, because he already knows the answer, “Uncle Harry, did you come to spend the holidays with me or to flirt with my neighbor?”

From a ten years old child, that was pretty blunt.

Hermione does her best to hide her shocked expression from the embarrassed man, but she can’t contradict the kid: Harry has spent yesterday with her, has slept here, and on top of that, seems to have forgotten to got get food for him when he stopped by her house.

Even if there was nothing unconscious in his actions -- Harry told her he had called a babysitter -- there’s quite a lot to be jealous of for Teddy.

Without waiting for her to suggest it, Harry removes the loudspeaker, “Teddy- Yeah, I know- Of course not- Your parents sa- Mmm…” The creases on his forehead would make Hermione laugh, if she didn’t find the situation too awkward. “So er- those cookies? Great- Then move yourself. Yeah-”

When he hangs up, there is a heavy silence sitting between them, until Harry announces, “He’s putting a scarf on, and he’ll be here in a minute.” And after a couple of seconds, he adds, “Sorry, it was- just a joke.”

Hermione gives him an encouraging smile, but for the remaining 53 seconds, they try to avoid each other’s stare as much as they can, and when the doorbell rings, almost collide to get to the entrance.

“I’ll open for him-” Harry mutters, before disappearing in the corridor.

“Good idea,” Hermione answers, basically speaking to herself.

She lets her shoulders slump. Why is it that she lets herself get tense because of what a kid says? Teddy was probably just tricking his godfather.

She pushes her concern away.

Outside, the weather seems to be mellowing. The street will soon be a big pond of melted snow and sticky mud. The bad side of white winters.

She would quite like to be on a Caribbean beach right now, but she shakes the thought off when her neighbors enter the room.

“Good morning, Ms. Granger!”

Ms. Granger?

“Hey Teddy!” She wonders how those blue hair and round cheeks can hide a little malicious soul like she knows he is. “So, want to try some of our cookies? Even if you quite don’t deserve them, you traito-”

“ _ Your _ cookies? Like, you baked them  _ together _ ?”

“Well-” An image of Harry’s hand touching hers while baking crosses Hermione’s head for a little too long. “I made the dough, and your godfather baked it.”

The kid looks at her as if she was from another planet. “Harry  _ just _ put the cookies in the oven?” Not quite sure where this is leading to, the young woman looks toward her friend, and Teddy’s eyes narrow. “Are you two-”

“Do you want to try the gingerbread, or chocolate chips, buddy?” Harry cuts across him. “I’m gonna put another batch inside. I haven’t tasted them yet, but they sure as heck smell wonderful.”

At this precise moment, Teddy understands something. 

Usually, his godfather doesn’t even flinch when they joke about him being a playboy. In London, Teddy has met plenty of his friends, and tried to make him get embarrassed by assuming they are his crush, with no other result than making him laugh a lot.

Once, they had a competition that consisted in getting candy shops sellers to offer them free sweets, and Harry had had no remorse in flashing his most flirtatious smile to the young women, who blushed madly and giggled like three-years-old -- Teddy and his squirrel cheeks still had won the bet, though.

But now, it’s different. Harry reacts very peculiarly to something he is used to.

On the other hand, there is his neighbor, Ms. Granger, whom he’s always and only seen in teacher mode, with tangled hair and a face that screams ‘I need tea!’. He’s spotted her throwing empty confections of precooked meals, at school, but never seen her with a recipe book in hand or whatever.

And yet, there she is, with her hair carefully picked up,  _ baking _ . 

The worst part of this all? Both of them are hiding those changes -- very badly -- and seem to be unaware of them themselves.

The kid looks from his godfather to his neighbor, feeling like none of the two is acting like typical, mature grownups. 

Then he shrugs and decides to drop the topic: adults’ stuff gets complicated. It’s better to leave it alone, or it turns out worse.

“I’m going to have a chocolate one,” he states, eagerly grabbing the first round biscuit on the pile. He bites into the crunchy texture like a hungry cat, just to spit it out immediately. “Bleah!”

Harry almost lets the cookie plate slip off his hands, and Hermione feels her gut tightening in a knot.

“What’s it, buddy?”

Grimacing, and spitting bits of dough in the sink --  _ that _ must be a family habit -- Teddy answers, outraged, “Aren’t cookies supposed to be made with sugar?”

Harry looks at Hermione, who slams a hand on her forehead.

When she opens her eyes, she finds two identical, badly repressed smirks, facing her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is @beaubcxton with a short message: This holiday season, I beg you to donate to foster homes and other charity organizations - even conservation programmes. Many people can't experience the joy of Christmas but you can bring it to them! Be like Harry and Hermione in this story, be kinder to people. 
> 
> And, also a big thank you to @reggieblck for her reviews. You make our day!

 

The door swings open but instead of the icy wind she expects, a degree of warmth washes over her, wholly unexpected.

“Harry.” The word falls from her lips, not exactly surprised but staggered that he still pursued his mission of bringing Christmas cheer to her.

He snaps his gaze towards her, a thin color of red coating dusting his cheeks. Hermione follows his original vision and grins. 

Of course, only he would find gnomes  _ interesting _ .

“Something interesting you, Harry?” 

Harry groans. “Don't tease. I don't want to stop liking you.”

Hermione flushes at that but regains her composure. “It's okay. I'll get you a gnome for Christmas.”

“ _ Hermione _ .”  He implores, shielding his eyes with a hand.  “You’re not getting away with that.” 

She nods, smiling for an unintelligent and illogical reason.

“Come on, let's go.”

She quirks a bushy eyebrow at him. “Where to?”

“I’m visiting a couple of shelters today.” Harry rubs his neck. “Thought you might want to tag along. Not an orthodox Christmas tradition, I suppose but it's one of mine.”

“Oh.”

Harry misunderstands the look that crosses her face and hastens to reassure her. “You don’t have to come-“

“I’m going to come. That’s not why I’m surprised.” Hermione ushers him in. “It’s just that nobody cares about this kind of stuff, usually. When I was in high school, I used to protest for Pro-LGBT and Pro-Abortion but since it’s a sensitive topic, people made fun of me. A lot of people, in fact.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Harry says cautiously, shutting the door softly. “Nobody deserves that.”

“It’s alright. It didn’t bother me. I had a head of stone as my mother used to say.”

“Still. I don’t understand why most people can’t be like you, opting to be close minded, instead.”

“Just the way things go.” Hermione says, in a matter of fact tone. “I wrote articles. Participated in protests. May have lost my temper several times, along the way.”

Harry laughs loudly. “I’m sorry but I can’t really imagine you vexed.”

“Do you want me to act for you?” Hermione says animatedly. The implication is sarcastic but judging by the way Harry’s eyes light up, he doesn’t catch it. Refusing to back down, she straightens her posture and clears her throat, theatrically.

“What the hell, Harry? Is this how you treat me? By being  _ kind _ ? I cannot even bloody believe you! ARGH. DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO ACT LIKE THIS? AFTER EVERYTHING I HAVE DONE FOR YOU.” Hermione sniffs. “Stop laughing, Harry. It isn’t that funny.” 

He continues to bench over, stomach panging with exertion as he laughs heartily. Finally, he rubs a tear from the corner of his eye. “That was actually really good.” 

“I know. I’m brilliant.” 

“You really are.” Harry agrees, his expression conveying that they weren’t talking about her dazzling acting skills. 

“Right.” She says awkwardly, fumbling for a response. “Do you want some water or-”

“I’m fine. Just get changed, yeah?” 

Hermione nods, sweeps her eyes over the room. “I’ll just be going then.” She points to the staircase.

His eyes are home to a thousand shooting stars. “You do that.” 

“Okay, um.” Hermione mentally slaps herself and urges her feet to take her away from her disaster conversation aptitude. She wonders if he’s watching her and the thought earns her another fictional facepalm. 

The need to sort out her attraction for Harry increases with each day. Infatuation wasn’t healthy; it was common knowledge. Reviewing her previous lessons, Hermione tries to stifle her growing desire by some tips she’d studied ages ago.

**One: Think about some of the flaws they had.**

Harry didn’t have any flaws, though unless kindness counted. Sometimes, he would add more sugar to his tea. And, he liked the taste of lemons but disliked mushrooms which was a great travesty but that made her laugh. Made her smile and feel like she was living again and not existing on autopilot. 

**Two: Give them a silly nickname**

The name Prince crosses her mind in a heartbeat of a second but it’s enough to make her heart heave as if she’s just run a marathon. Discarding the tip, she moves onto the next one. 

**Three: Draw an ugly photo of them**

Hermione almost laughs out loud at this one. She couldn’t even imagine Harry as someone not beyond radial. With dimple cheeks and emerald eyes that doused her with warmth from head to toe, Harry looked like he just stepped out from a modeling gig. 

She was confident that he would look amazing even when age wrapped him in their claws. If she closed her eyes, she could see the left dimple accompanied with now, grey hair. And, always a smile on his face. 

Hermione sighs, wrapping a scarf around her neck after applying at thin layer of chapstick. 

Hoping her presentation isn’t as embarrassing as she fears it to be, Hermione bounds down the stairs, hair hurtling in front of her face.

“Ready?” Harry asks, offering her gloves hung on the door. 

Hermione takes them with an expression of gratitude. “Not really. Mind if we stop at the store first?” 

* * *

“What?” Hermione asks, aware that his eyes are trained on her face for the last few minutes. “Is there something on my nose or something?” 

“Uh, no.” Harry messes up his hair and flashes her a crooked grin. “It’s just nice that you’re doing something like this.” 

Hermione shrugs. “It’s what people are supposed to do.” 

“True.” Harry scans the shelves. “How’s these?” 

She nods appreciatively and puts the clothes in the trolley. When she was younger, Hermione used to feel miserable as she passed homeless people on the street wearing rags in the middle of winter. There wasn’t anything she could  _ do  _ sitting in her parents car but as she grew older, she offered them greetings and eventually, food and water. Those were some of the happiest moments in her life - eating breakfast with a total stranger at McDonalds, watching light trickle back into their eyes.  

It made her feel useful now, picking up some socks and mittens for the shelter orphans. It was inadequate but it gave her some purpose, diluted her guilt a little. 

The trolley was filled with sweets like chocolates and cakes along with several items of clothing and woolen socks. Once the store run out of appropriate winter wear, Hermione nods her head in determination. 

“All done?”

“Yep.” Hermione smiles at him. “Thank you.” 

“Thank you.” Harry protests. “I’d have never thought of this if it wasn’t for you. Another Christmas tradition in the making.” 

The next issue they faced was the matter of the bill. Harry insisted on paying, his reason  being that he was the one who suggested the tradition. On the other hand, Hermione pressed her argument that it was her who suggested the supermarket trip. In the end, they compromised on it. 

A few minutes later, they were safelys strapped with belts in his car. Hermione took to admiring the scenery around them. 

Snow capped the wood like a lover long embraced. Hermione traced the lines of the bark of trees. Wishing she could stick her arm out and grab a snowflake, she instead decided to travel the safer route and just watch them fall. She loved snow, more so when it was in the midst of kissing the ground. 

The trees grew endless and a passing gust of wind shook its leaves. A snowflake fell on her nose and Hermione scrunches her nose up before she looks at it’s enchanting pattern. 

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” 

Harry slides a glance at her and then at the snowflake. “Yeah. Truly lovely.” 

The beauty soon fades and blurs in her palm. Hermione shuts her eyes and rolls the windows closed when a shiver racked her body. 

Humming a tune under her breath, she’s pleasantly surprised when Harry joins in. 

_ “Have yourself a merry little Christmas-”  _

“Let your heart be light.” 

_ “From now on your troubles will be out of sight.”  _

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas.” Hermione ends off, self consciously tugging a curl of her hair. She’s never sang in front of anyone before. The neighbours might have heard her when her voice blasted in the shower but she hoped they didn’t though the odds of that are negligible. 

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock.” Harry begins anew, rapping his steering wheel. 

“Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring.” Hermione joins in, her voice getting increasingly louder partly because she’s lame and she doesn’t care.  _ Jingle Bell Rock _ was one of her favorite carols and she’d be damned if she didn’t pour her heart in the lyrics. 

For nearly two hours, the pair of them belt out various Christmas carols, ranging from Justin Bieber rendition of Mistletoe to It feels like Christmas by the Muppets. Their throats were strained and exhausted by the time Harry pulled up in front of a house but the grins didn’t diminish from their face by a fraction. 

 “That was fun.” Hermione admits, accepting Harry’s hand of help as she jumps from the jeep. 

Harry laughs. “It so was. I’ve made the Scrooge of Christmas an avid fan of the season.” 

Hermione messes up his hair, lightly at the attempted jab. “I wasn’t a Scrooge.” 

“You kind of were. I thought you hated me at first.” 

Hermione gasps. “No. I’m naturally shy. It takes me a while to open to people.” 

“Yeah. I know that now.” Harry passes her one box at her request as he shifts two at his bicep. “When I first knocked, you literally gave me the study excuse. Who does that?” 

“Someone who actually needs to study!” Hermione sniffs. “It wasn’t my fault that you thought otherwise.” 

“I give people the study excuse when I don’t want visitors.” Harry chuckles. “Who’d have thought you’d be my best friend?” 

Hermione pauses her brisk space and turns to look at him. “I’m your best friend?”

He shrugs, as much as he can, with the strain of the heavy boxes. “Well, yeah.” 

“Oh.” Hermione digests it, feeling a wave of heat creep up her skin. “You’re mine too.” 

This takes him by surprise. “Oh.” He repeats, awed as if the possibility of being Hermione Granger’s best friend is an honorable thing, bestowed to none. “Thank you.” 

Afraid that her voice might shake or worse, Hermione pushes the lump of emotion in her throat and stalks forward, eyes burning with the onslaught of tears.

_ A best friend.  _

Hermione smiles giddily. 

* * *

There are many things that make Hermione cry and very rarely will she quash the opportunity to sob her troubles away. It soon proved difficult to appear nonchalant when a boy, barely nine, grabbed her hands and thanked her profusely. 

She couldn’t even manage to respond, but, thankfully, Harry stepped towards her and shook the boy’s hand. 

“Hey bud. Make sure to wear those socks and gloves everyday, okay?” He says, crouching to maintain eye contact. “Now, don’t you kids want some of the cake?” 

The boy launches himself at Harry before repeating the gesture on Hermione. Startled, Hermione only reciprocates the action for a second before he pushes away and runs without another word towards the dessert. 

“I want to cry.” Harry admits, emotions raw and unbearably honest. “They’re just so innocent and it’s not fair.” 

“I know.” Hermione says softly, lending Harry a hug. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

Harry pulls away first and tucks a curl of hair behind Hermione’s ear which is pointless because it bounces back as soon as he withdraws his fingers. 

A grin tugs at his face. “Let’s not be sad, yeah? It’s time to have fun.” 

She nods, promising herself that she’d make the most of the trip. “Come on, let’s go. We can make some hot chocolate.” 

* * *

“Say thank you to them now.” Sister Elle tells the children who are invested in their steaming mugs of hot chocolate. “For the clothes and the food. It is important to be grateful. Especially in these kind of times.”

The room chorus out a message of gratitude, in a disorganized union so characteristic of children. In the back of her mind, Hermione remembers chapter fifteen of  _ Mechanics of a Child’s Mind,  _ but forgets it as quickly as it had come.

She nudges Harry. “Go read to them.” 

Without a word, Harry gets up, quite jovial towards the children. Hermione watches him reach for a high five from all the students with a soft smile playing on the corner of her lips. When she looks at Sister Elle, the woman is watching her with a grin of her own. 

“I’m assuming he’s your husband?” 

Hermione coughs and feels the blood rush up to her ears. “Not at all. Best friend, actually.” 

Sister Elle makes a sound of agreement as if she doesn’t quite believe the story, but says nothing. Hermione realizes that the reputed way that have matrons in novels to communicate their disbelief is a real thing. 

“Do you provide the children with education?” Hermione attempts to divert the topic into a conversation she rehearsed. 

“Yes.” The lady nods her head, speaking slowly. “It’s not as good as it would be in a school but it’s the best we can manage.” 

“Can you-can you adopt them?”

Sister Elle doesn’t look astonished. In fact, it seemed like she expected nothing less from Hermione, the girl who left quite an impression wherever she went. “You could. It might take some time but it’s not impossible.” 

Hermione nods, wringing her hands together. “And, what about their health? Are vaccines provided to them?” 

“Only the ones mandatory by law. The rest-I’m afraid we can’t allow such luxuries.” 

“And food?” 

“We try to give them a balanced diet. Catering to a number of students, it’s difficult to have the allowance. This is the second time they’ve tried cake. I must thank you. There’s nothing more beautiful than seeing children happy.” 

“No, there isn't.” Hermione muses, thoughtfully. “Do you take contributions?” 

“We do.” 

There’s something very depressing about seeing orphans who have practically nothing and yet, never lose their glee while people lost their nerve over the most trivial things. Observing the children that ran around, a moustache with the residue of milk on some of their faces, Hermione made it a point to be happier. 

“Hermione!” 

She visibly jolts and pinpoints the location of the noise. Her heart lodges itself in her throat, simultaneously melting and turning into a liquid mass of chocolate goo. Harry is surrounded by almost the whole room, all who listen with vast absorption. It’s like magic in that moment. 

Harry waves a hand in silent greeting, eyes blazing with a mellow fire. It’s sudden when the revelation drowns her, all the while a long time coming. Once, the thought sticks to her, she can’t get rid of it because it makes clear and perfect sense. 

Hermione has feelings  _ feelings  _ for Harry. 

It isn’t simply attraction as she naively assumed it to be. 

Every morning, she has woken up with a smile on her face, awaiting the moment someone would knock the door and she’d be greeted by those dimples she loves so much. The moments she spent with Harry were the highlights of her days. 

Hasn’t she been laughing more? Hasn’t she felt more stress relieved when he was in the room with her? 

In university, her advisor once asked her to lay off books as it produced a negative effect on her body and Hermione couldn’t ever think about a life, an hour not utilised effectively but now, she has learned so much things that books can’t even  _ try  _ to teach. Thanks to Harry. Harry, that wonderful  _ gem  _ of a human being. 

Hermione was happy just talking to him, doesn’t mind when he tweaks her schedule, and it is  _ obvious   _ when she thinks about it, so clear that her feelings run deeper than simple infatuation. 

She chances another look at him and her heart thuds. She’s fallen for her best friend, she chants. 

The initial fear is swept away and replaced by unadulterated happiness. She has fallen for her best friend. There isn’t a person in the world luckier in the world to like someone who oozes geniality from every fiber of his being. 

Hermione, concludes the revelation by mumbling an excuse before she makes her way towards the circle. Flopping down beside a couple of kids, she almost cries --again-- when a girl lays her head on her shoulder. She wraps an arm around the child’s back, missing the way Harry’s eyes soften when he glimpses at her. 

“And, Scrooge learned how to live the spirit of Christmas.” 

* * *

He drops her to her doorstep, doesn’t invite himself in as it’s already half past ten. The wind howls loudly but both make no attempt to say their goodbyes. 

Fidgeting with his keys, he stalls. “Thanks for coming today.” 

“Thanks for inviting me.” Hermione rubs her hands together before shoving them in the pockets of her coat. “It meant a lot to me.” 

“Yeah, anytime.” Harry coughs, more out of awkwardness than anything. “I’ll see you, then.” 

“Yeah.” Hermione mocks a sigh, swinging on the heels of her foot and unlocking the door. “Tomorrow.” 

He rolls his eyes at her teasing and walks to his house. “You know you love me, Mione.” 

The laugh that erupts out of him, induced by her maroon face, echoes throughout the whole neighborhood. 

“See you later, Mione!” 

Hermione nods before she drags her body in. Locking the door, she wants to sink to her knees right then and there but reins the yearning and in a daze, collapses onto the bed. How lovesick, how flustered could one be? 

Harry called her  _ Mione _ . The nickname sounded endearing coming from his lips. She likes that someone has abbreviated her name to something shorter, but the reason for her less than sensible approach and fangirling is that, as ridiculous as it sounds, Harry was the only one who called her  _ Mione _ . It is the level of  _ intimacy  _ and something privy to only them that brought about the following action. 

She squeals loudly, cheeks hurting with the force of a megawatt grin. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! We hope you're having a lovely day. This is a casual reminder to drink a glass of water, eat your meals if you haven't and sleep if it's late. 
> 
> Your kudos ( and comments ) would mean a lot to us!

There’s a different kind of rapping on the door: a constant one that resembles the patter of the rain. When Hermione opens the door, she’s faced by a very adorable child staring at her with eyes of the color of autumn.

Hermione’s worked with kids. The look the child is sporting can only identify one option. He wants something.

“Teddy!” Harry locates the boy already on her doorsteps and his brisk footsteps evolve to a race. “I’m sorry, Hermione. He insisted we meet you and I asked him to wait but-”

“It’s alright.” Hermione crouches to meet the boy’s stare. “What did you want to tell me?”

“It’s really of no consequence.” Harry cuts in, glaring at his nephew.

Teddy goes on without interruption. “Will you come over for a sleepover tonight?”

Hermione, startled, chances a glance at Harry who’s coincidentally returning her gaze. There isn’t a trace of emotion there that informs her how he feels about a _sleepover_ . Her first instinct is to say _no (because it’s all a little weird, isn’t it?)_ but then she sees the puppy dog eyes and there isn’t a place nor a person who can ignore Teddy Lupin’s adorableness.

“I’d love to.” Hermione says. “As long as your uncle is fine with it.”

“He’s _more_ than cool with it.” Teddy giggles demonically, stepping away from Harry.

She expects him to look exasperated but when he faces her, she’s rewarded with a wink. “It’s true.”

Her face burns.

The season promotes them to gear up in sweaters and mittens. She’d felt a little like a fool wearing a hat and gloves when people half her age danced in the street with merely an overcoat. However, being a hypochondriac and a woman of sense, the only thing she changed about her clothing was to add another layer of wool.

There’d been a second of worry when Harry paused after she came down the steps - wearing a faded and tucked yellow sweater. In her opinion, she did look cute but Harry simply nodded at her thrice and banged his foot on the steps in his haste to leave the house.

Harry passes her a flask of hot chocolate and she takes it with a bucket of gratitude, nimble fingers tucking the cup closer to her chest allowing the warmth to seep in.

They step outside and shove one hand in their coat pocket, the bitter wind making their teeth chatter. Teddy swings between them, the tip of his nose resembling a rudolph.

Hermione watches the way her steps leave a print in the snow, marveling at the pattern of her shoes. She has no idea where they’re taking her so she glides idly across the pavement. They walk for a few minutes making sure to stray in a neighbourhood where nobody has the luck to know them. Rapping on the door, Teddy snickers as a couple looking utterly dismayed by their presence opens.

 _“We wish you a Merry Christmas!”_ Harry sings, encouraging to her join in but Hermione mock glares at him resolutely and hums the chorus. When the boys announced they had plans, Hermione had agreed to them despite the secrecy of the situation. She was not expecting to be standing out in evening of winter, a forced smile trained on her face, the same facial expression reflected on the neighbours.

This was a version of Halloween but unlike the day, there weren’t any candies handed out. Instead, they were subjected to the - _oh, it’s nice that you’re doing this but please leave-_ face.

Perhaps, she was exaggerating. The flare of dramatics were genetic, after all. Some hosts were so enthusiastic by their arrival that they hollered for their families and sang along with them.

Gradually, they were joined by several other people and Hermione, sucked by the Christmas energy, began to sing softly, now carefree that her voice was being drowned by the mass.

Numbed by the cold, a melancholic feeling stirs in Hermione, raising it’s curious head wondering how it’s decade long hibernation was put to an end.

* * *

“Do you want something to drink?” Harry yawns as they walk out of Teddy’s room. They had both joined forces to fight the excitement that held Teddy prison from the land of Dreams. Teddy had asked for a story about princesses and Hermione had willingly complied, glad to know that traditional gender norms did not exist in the household. Flimsily, she recounted _Tiana_ as best as she could which seemed to please the boy immensely.

After that, Harry sang a lullaby which hit the bull’s eye, for Teddy began to snore softly. Harry was funnily offended, claiming that his singing couldn’t have bored his godson to sleep for _that wasn’t possible, was it?_

“I’m fine. Thank you.” Hermione drops on the sofa and shuts her eyes. “Today was nice.”

Harry hums and she feels a jolt as he drops his head on her shoulder. “Yeah. It was nice having company.”

_His head on my shoulder. Why did he keep doing that?_

“So um- Any plans for tomorrow?” she asks, trying to distract herself. The warmth of his skin could be felt prominently enough that her sweater felt like it was in a blast furnace.

“Plans? Who makes plans during holid- Oh yeah. You, of course.”

“Hey!” She sits straight, prompting him to do the same. She notices his smirk, accompanied by that damned dimple, and melts a little in the inside. Still, he can’t keep on teasing her like that. “Don’t act as if you don’t. Going to the shelter was one, an-”

Harry cuts across her sentence with a loud snort. “I’m kidding, Mione. Of course, I have plans. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on anything. And, you’re so easy to infuriate but I’m glad you do. You get very _cute_ when you’re angry.”

Hermione slumps back on the soft cushions, crossing her arms, and doing her best to ignore that last part of his speech. “So, any plans-not-plans-actually-plans for tomorrow?”

Harry stretches, but doesn’t put his head back on her shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe going to a mall? We really need to get you a better sweater.”

For the umpteenth time, the young woman rolls her eyes at that topic.

“But,” Harry adds, “Why talk about the future, if we can enjoy the present?” He stands up, then bends exaggeratedly low, and offers him a hand. “Would Your Majesty, Queen Of Grinches, do me the honor of accepting this dance?”

Amused by his ridiculous idea, Hermione smiles a shy grin. “Without music?” She mimics fanning herself like a lady. “I doubt so, Sir Big Head Bigger Ego.”

“Music?” Sparkles of fun light up behind his glasses, “That shall be fixed right away, if Your Bossiness would just accept to follow me on the dance floor. So, what do you say, Princess? Will you have pity on this _kind_ sir and dance with me?”

“Fine,” Hermione finally agrees, giving herself an air of snobby, bored aristocrat. She lays her fingers on his, and does her best to resist to the electric shock that makes her insides quiver.

Harry leads his lady toward an little radio, placed on a glass table in a retired corner of the room, and chooses a CD. Turning the engine on and pressing the play button is just the matter of a second, and the music stretches around them lifting them towards the skies.

The number of times they squish the other’s foot during their clumsy waltz is honestly ridiculous, though neither seems to care, no matter how many times the other stumbles.

There is something so intimate and pure about dancing where all the surroundings seem to fade away. All that exists and matters, in that moment, is the person in front of you.

Hermione couldn’t get enough of the strange euphoria that settled on her skin like mist. There was something very vivid about being tucked against Harry’s frame and listening to his heartbeat. All the colors were suddenly darker, no longer bland and there’s a part of her that wonder if it’s the beginning of something magical. She closes her eyes, wondering if Christmas did have its perks after all. Eyes shut, she lets her heart thrum with the intimacy of the moment.

“Hermione?” Harry says. The syllables are almost a sigh in the atmosphere. She doesn’t have the energy to respond so she hums. “Are you _sleepy_?”

“No.” Hermione lies. “You’re comfortable.”

Harry chuckles softly and his whole body rattles as the laugh erupts from his body. “You’re more tired than I thought you would be.”

“A bit.” She extends but there isn’t a part of her that wants to shift. If she closed her eyes, the scent of peppermint would be particularly intoxicating. It’s a bit maddening the way she’s acting but Hermione rarely, if ever, engages in physical contact so it’s only psychology to have some _thoughts_ about Harry, the ones she’s harboring now. None of it means _anything_ save for the fact where she thinks she’s in love with him.

She blinks and stares up at him - only to notice that he’s staring right back at her. They remain in that position for several heartbeats, trapped and unable to look away from the other’s unflinching yet soft gaze.

Enough time for Hermione to notice that his eyes aren’t simply a muse of forest green but a fusion of amber as well.

Enough time for Hermione to realize that if Harry were to swoop down and kiss her, she’d consent to be his princess.

She hopes, desperately and fervently wishing for her happily ever after but then Harry’s voice breaks through her daydreams.

“Thank you for being kind to Teddy today. He misses his parents. I know he doesn’t say but you can tell.”

Hermione draws back, startled. Her heart which was lodged in her throat falls to her stomach where it brews with disappointment.  “You don’t have to thank someone for being kind. It’s practically a fundamental law of society.”

Harry smiles wistfully. “Not everyone can say the same. You’re amazing to think about it like that, though.”

Hermione shrugs, irritating and metaphorical knives stabbing her cerebellum. Kindness was a quality her parents had always encouraged. Even at their worst, they maintained a standard of decorum. To realize that thousands of people _decided_ to be unkind hurt her in ways she couldn’t even express.

“Everyone should.”

Most of all when one knows what it is like to be in that situation. She lives far from her own family, and knows the feeling of missing them, even at adult’s age.

Harry hums his agreement and spins her around. Her hair whips her in the face and she huffs trying to spit some of it out. It’s hardly romantic but she drifts to sleep as Harry throat ripples with the notes of _Last Christmas._

“Hermione? Sure you don’t want to sleep?”

“Fine.” She relents under his cocky smirk. “Do you want me to go home or-”

“You can sleep here.” Harry objects. “Teddy might be disappointed if you go home early. He’ll want you for breakfast but if you want to-”

“I’ll stay the night.” Hermione says, moving out of Harry’s embrace much to his disappointment. “I’ll get ready.”

“I’ll wait.”

“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll just put my bedsheets and I’ll sleep on the couch? Or would you prefer me to sleep on the floor?”

A sharp bark of laughter follows her statement. “God, you’re so funny.”

“I’m being serious! Where do you want me to sleep?”

This poses a dilemma for Harry. Incredulous, he echoes her words, “ _Couch_? You’re taking the bed and that’s the tea.”

Another internet phrase, Hermione assumes. She wouldn’t know having been in the mindset that technology could ruin one’s brain. There was evidence to support that statement, even so she didn’t want to gamble just so she could ‘enjoy’ herself. Harry, however, took pride in his sub - par knowledge about Tumblr jokes and called himself the ‘Meme King’ at times.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense, Harry. You’ve done enough. The least I can do is take the couch.”

“Well, that’s rubbish.” Harry doesn’t falter and remains as firm as the lid to a chocolate box. “You’re taking the bed, alright?”

“Where will you sleep? On the couch?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Then, let me take it.”

“No.”

“Harry, don’t be stubborn.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Hermione folds her arms over herself and engages in a battle of eye competition. After Harry’s eyes furiously well up tears, he blinks. She resists the natural instinct to gloat. “Just take the room.”

“No.”

Hermione raises her hands towards the ceiling. “Fine! We’ll just share.”

“ _What??”_

“To your consent, of course.”

Harry looks at her like she’s an enigma, as if he’s seeing her for the first time. “I-yeah. I wouldn’t mind. Are you okay with it?”

“Perfectly. I’m the one who suggested it.”

_And we already did, a few days ago._

Granted, none of them had _planned_ it as such but _still_.

“Right.” Harry now glances around in desperation. “So, that’s settled. We’re sleeping together. I mean, in the same bed- Er, sleeping next to each other.”

Hermione laughs, turning his anxiously riddled mind blissfully empty of thought. He runs a hand through his air, making it appear even more messed up like it’s just been zapped with electricity and throws her a charming albeit sheepish smile.

A smile blooms onto her lips. She hasn’t felt this happy in a long time and to think, that’s it all because of a certain bespectacled man.  

It’s a fact that sleeping - cuddling - with someone brings you closer to them than previously before. So much so that cuddling has become the latest trend. In fact, people cuddle on the first date to increase their bond.

Hermione wakes up in the morning - squashed and with a terrible neck cramp but she hasn’t felt as relieved and happy as she does when she sees Harry’s sleepy smile than she ever felt in her life.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually adore this chapter so I hope you enjoy this! If we reach 10 kudos by today, I'll post the next chapter, shortly :D

He fumbles with the camera – almost dropping it even though he’s practiced the movement a thousand times. Extending the device so that the screen peers at them from a thoughtful distance, Harry smiles at it and runs a hand through his hair.

“Stop recording, Harry. I don’t want millions of people to see me.”

Harry is what people would call a vlogger. She checked out his Youtube channel once, and nearly cried herself to death because it is so ridiculously _hilarious_ and so undeniably Harry. While there are quite a number of videos of him cooking a dish, the videos which have the biggest views are the ones in which he acts like a total dork.

There is one video where he does nothing but pet a deer for a whole hour. At the end of the video, a bird decided to excrete on him, and the deer fled away. Harry's face took on a great deal of offense and a morose look at that. As the credits rolled by, she actually did fall off her chair as she read _‘I did not smell that bad.’_

He tilts the camera downwards. “I won’t post it, yeah? If it makes you feel better, I can keep the stuff back in the car.”

Hermione draws out a sigh. “Nah, it’s alright. Just as long as you don’t post this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

That is a new addition. She doesn’t know the derivation of it, nor what spurned it on, but the bespectacled boy has been engaging in conversation that awfully sound like flirting. The development isn’t necessarily evil, yet it never fails to bring a traitorous blush on Hermione’s face.

She does not want to get her hopes up – can’t get her hopes up. Harry is, most importantly, her best friend, and she would never do anything to jeopardize that by affection.

“Smile at the camera, Mione. You have a lovely smile. They’ll like that.” Harry goes again, wearing that stupid cute smile on his face. Those dimples could be her downfall. She knows they will be.

“You said you weren’t going to post it.”

“I’m not.” Harry corrects. “They is future Harry and Hermione.”

Hermione rolls her eyes and quickens her pace. _Boys._

According to Harry, recording the most mundane things about your life and watching them later is ‘one of the best things in the world.’ The smallest things, after all, make you the happiest.

“This is the amazing one of a kind Harry Potter along with fabulous, fantastic, also one of a kind, special guest: Hermione Granger.” Harry hollers, attracting not just a few stares. Hermione shields her face, murmuring a plea. “Join us as we have the best day of our life! Anything you want to say, Mione?”

“If you keep yelling, I will end you.”

“And, that’s a wrap!”

Harry nestles closer to her and flexes his hand from the cold. They enter the mall and the sudden humid atmosphere extracts a sigh of relief from the pair.

“Where do you want to start, boss?” The man asks, distractedly looking at the flickering lights that adorn every vitrine.

There, she recognizes him more.

“I have no idea, amazing-one-of-a-kind-Harry-Potter,” Hermione mocks him, still blushing as an aftermath of the attention he has attracted with his shouts. “You dragged me here.”

Never mind that she thought of coming here and buying him a present.

“But…” He stares at her with an exaggeratedly open mouth, faking an outraged expression. “We’re here because _you’re_ in critical situation.”

“It’s not a critical situation,” Hermione backfires. “I just don’t have a Christmas sweater.”

“Critical situation,” Harry mutters in affirmation, as he interestingly eyes the window of a cute bar. “Want a cookie?”

The woman shakes her head, at both of his sentences. “We basically live on cookies, these days. If I get any more sugar in my system, I think I’m going to turn into a gingerbread doll.”

Surprised by her best friend’s silence, she shoots a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He’s staring at her too.

“You already look like a doll, Mione.”

Again, with the flirting. Seriously, what is _wrong_ with boys? Apart the fact that, most of the time, they seem to rely on only two neurons.

“What are you laughing at, now?” His tone is slightly hurt, as if he was reading her mind. “Do not even try to take yourself down in my presence, do you hear me?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Tsk, insolent child.”

“Do not call me a _child_.”

“You’re one, sweetie.”

“I’d like to remind you that I’m way older than you.”

“Now, this is a low blow!” Harry cries, raising his eyebrows. “And may I ask how you’ve come to that conclusion?”

“You could have chosen a more original phone password,” she chuckles, “Teddy likes to explore your gallery from time to time.”

“My gall- You haven’t looked in it, I hope.”

“Of course I have. It was- surprising.”

Harry’s skin turns a deeper tone of chocolate. The number of ridiculous selfies and pictures he’s taken exceeds infinity. But if she had really seen them, he doubts that she’d resisted until today to tease him about it.

“You haven’t, have you?”

“No, I haven’t ,” Hermione admits with a grin. “But I might be tempted to, now.”

 _You’re cute when you blush, you know,_ she wants to add, being the flirtatious one, for once.

It would certainly surprise him. Reversing the roles is something that psychology student enjoy to do a lot, but she doesn’t have the guts to. Not with him, and not in that situation.

Deck the Halls resounds among the crystalline balcons of the mall, and kids’ laughter explodes everywhere. The smell of sweets and hot chocolate is so present around them that Hermione thinks she could have some by only grabbing it from midair.

“Last time I came here, there weren’t half those shops,” Harry confides her. “It was about four years ago maybe. I was late Christmas shopping, and I can tell you I struggled like crazy.” A smile embellishes his lips, and the look in his eyes is of pure nostalgia. “If they haven’t closed, behind this corner there should be- Ah!”

He thrusts his arms forward, as to hug the shop in front of them. The flickering golden sign reads ‘Berry’s Merries.’

Perplexed, Hermione peekes inside the full local, and gapes at the extra wide variety of sparkling, glittering, and gleaming items. Berry’s Merries’ shelves display all possible kinds of Christmas caps, Santa costumes, and candy canes she’s ever seen. A huge pine tree thrones in the middle of the room, looking down at the curious customers with a gigantic golden bow on its top.

“That’s-” she murmurs.

“Heaven!” Harry finishes the sentence. “Heaven for all Christmas lovers, and the right place to cure any living Grinch on this Earth.”

Hermione grimaces. “Stop calling me that.”

“Only when I’ll see you wrapped in a cozy, sparkling, oversized Christmas sweater, Mione. One that will make you look like a present to put under the tree.”

The woman shakes her head, and heads toward the shop.

Entering Berry’s Merries is like stepping in a dream. The human-scale reproductions of nutcrackers that welcome you as you close the door are nothing compared to the mini railroad that passes in every corner of the two-floored boutique, tooting at the kids that stand in awe in front its vapor column, or to the mountains of shining wrapped presents that reach the roof.

Hermione reads out loud the note at the bottom of the pile of colorful boxes, “‘Love is the greatest gift: impossible to miss. Sharing is the gift’s ribbon: impossible to avoid.’”

“These are Christmas gifts to be distributed in shelters on Christmas Eve,” a salesgirl, with two blonde braids sprouting from her her green hat, informs her. “We do the same whip-round every year, but this year it has reached a new record. May I help you, miss?”

Before Hermione has the chance to melt in a puddle of tears filled with emotions, Harry grabs her by the shoulders, “We’re looking for the most Christmassy sweaters you have, please.”

With a magic smile -- which certifies the man’s hypothesis that this girl has been an elf in another life -- Blonde Braids leads them through the massive crowd, “Everything we have is the most Christmassy, sir.”

Miss Green Hat isn’t taller than 12 years old kid, but struts among the shelves of the whole shop so fast that she’s hard to follow. Fortunately, she throws her silvery blue stare over her shoulder from time to time to make sure she hasn’t lost her pair.

On the way to the clothes department, Hermione has to refrain Harry from buying 15 meters of reindeer led lights and the collection of ten volumes called of “Christmas garlands through the years: a complete history.”

"Here we are!” announces the salesgirl, after bypassing a table buried under fake snow and festive mugs. “I guarantee that you’ll find what you’re looking for! Call me if you need any further help, okay? If not, have a very jolly end of the year!”

“Thank you very much- er- Elfie,” Harry says after checking the badge on her t-shirt.

He’d like to ask if this is her real name, but she has already disappeared in the sea of customers.

“Wow,” whispers Hermione, “She looked… magical.”

Harry nods, a dreamy mist hovering before his eyes, and pushes his glasses up his nose.

The miniature train passes right above their heads, and wakes them up with a loud “TOOOOT”.

“So,” Harry claps his hands together, “Where to start?”

And they both dive into the line of exposed sweaters.

* * *

“Twenty-three pounds and fifty-five cents!”

The salesman opens the cash register with a loud jingle as Harry hands him a bill. Meanwhile, Hermione broods on her disapproval.

“Don’t be that much of a mood-breaker, Mione. I’m the one who pestered you into buying one, it’s just normal that I pay for it.”

“You make me mad, sometimes. _I’m_ the one who will wear it.”

Harry curls one corner of his mouth up, “I’m sure you’ll wear it only in my presence because you actually hate it.”

“You’re such a- If I don’t use it much, it’s gonna be because I don’t want to wear it out.”

“If you do wear it out, I’ll buy you another one.”

“I can buy it myself.”

“No, you cannot. You’re as talented for choosing Christmas sweaters as you are to bake cookies.”

The woman shots him a dark look as the employee hands her a paper bag, containing her new green and gold sweater and a pair of red socks for Teddy. The silvery badge pinned on his chest reads ‘Elfet’.

From behind the counter, the man looks at the pair with a funny spark in his eyes. “If I may interfere, miss, your friend is right. A Christmas sweater is so much more comfortable when it’s a gift from a person you love.”

“Ha!” Harry expresses his triumph with a big grin. “See? I’ll buy you a new one every year. Thank you-”

But the man to whom his gratitude is aimed has vanished in the stockroom, and Hermione starts to seriously wonder if this is a normal shop.

“Uh- Do we- Do we go?” Harry pulls her elbow gently, trying to figure out the same thing. “I still have something to show you.”

* * *

Heaven is the taste of a donut in one’s mouth as the filling explodes your pallet of taste buds into a colourful and numbing world. Perhaps, Hermione is being dramatic. She wouldn’t admit it, if you asked her, but desserts are her sole weakness.

The funny, albeit ironical, situation is that her parents are dentists. Growing up, she wasn’t allowed a pastry or even a birthday cake. Her father would make her a spinach cake! Yet, when she went off to college, there was a bakery right beside her favourite coffee shop. And, it is a universal fact that coffee tasts excellent if accompanied with a side of sweetness.  

She’d never intended anyone to find out how truly fanatical she can get when matters of her diet were concerned. It in’t like she has an obesity problem. The risk of diabetes could be cancelled out thanks to her extreme precision with quantity. And, if the tide takes her somewhere dangerous, there is always the option of exercise.

Kronos, the Greek God of time, seems to extend his powers, and Hermione is left into her own bubble when the topic of dessert is concerned.

“This is the best thing I have ever tasted.” Harry remarks, shutting his eyes as to savour the taste even more. “We should come here more often.”

Hermione ignores the way her heart jumps at _we_ and the promise of another time. “Agreed. I’m literally going to be ruined by Dunkin Donuts.”

The statement – no matter how ridiculous it sounds – was true. The doughnut she holds in hand is petite if compared to Others, but the crisp and fresh flavour that it offers can be rivalled by none. Still warm from the oven, the chocolate pours out, staining the tips of Hermione’s fingers, which she licks off in delight.

“This is already the best day of my life.” Harry helps Hermione put her coat on, after they have carefully wiped the remnants of syrup off their hands. “Thanks, Mione.”

She looks at him incredulously. “Thank you. And, the sentiments are the same for me. This beats the day when I got an 800 on a test.”

“Out of 1000?” He inquires politely.

“A hundred, actually.”

Harry trips over air. “Damn. That’s bloody brilliant!”

“Yes.” Hermione tucks a particular resistant curl of hair behind her ear, willing it to stay. It bounces back as soon as she withdraws her hand. “I wish I got a 900 though.” She teases.

* * *

Santa Claus has a round belly.

She is beyond thankful of the fact because so very few people are invested in their role of the Saint. Most people just dress in red, don a long grey beard and call themselves Santa Claus. Hermione would like to argue that people with a flat stomach can’t call themselves Santa Claus. The facts – and stories – point so. With all that milk and cookies that he digests, his stomach should have only increased in size. It is all a part of the play that should be executed with excellence.

Thankfully, the Santa Claus at Tesco is heavy in nature, with wrinkles on his face and a smile in his eyes.

The two Young people stand in line, and they look like quite a pair among children who are almost half their size. Several parents give them the stink-eye, which they dutifully ignore. Adults are allowed to have fun _too_. There isn’t a law dictating that they shouldn’t. And even if there was, Hermione suspects that Harry ( and her, it seems ) would find a way to break it.

Gazing at the scene with a wave of nostalgia, she watches as a child runs towards Santa before jumping upon his lap and claiming a seat. Even from a distance, Hermione identifies the smile that splits apart his face.

It reminds her of memories as a child when her own father would dress up as Santa Claus - wore those rented costumes and came pounding down the stairs yelling _Ho, Ho, Ho._ He’d wave a hand at them and exhale some ridiculously funny puns and ruffle her hair before bounding away.

She likes to remember those memories. If she shuts her eyes and looks back on those days, she can picture the way her mother’s lips twisted to form an expression akin to amusement as she watched her normally scrawny husband appear as a huge hairy man.

It had been slightly disgusting to watch her mother fawn over her father because she found him handsome even then - she always does, but Hermione is grateful to have parents who love each other.

After all, the happiest moments in life are found in the smallest ones.

Now, she just sounds like Harry.

Speaking of Harry, the man looks more like a child than the kids surrounding them. It looks like all the stars in the sky have been strung in his eyes: they are practically _shining._ Without her own volition, Hermione smiles. It has only been a few days but she knows - without a doubt of uncertainty - that she loves the man.

An elf - not of the real ones, but of the people masking in one - barks rudely at a child and Hermione blood practically boils over. She makes sure to send the child a comforting smile and the elf, well, he gets almost blinded by her scalding look.

Soon enough, it is their turn. Harry allows Hermione to go first - and she wonders if it’s the gentleman side of him or the part that appears vaguely nervous that prompts him to do so.

A swarm of butterflies erupt in her stomach - she hasn’t acted like this in _ages_. Like a child who lived in the moment. For a brief instant, she panics, and almost bolts. There is a high probability that people she knows from university could be here, and if they saw resident nerd, Hermione Granger, meeting Santa Claus of all people - well, they would be in for quite a shocker. She doesn’t let the worries overwhelm, however and prances onto the bearded man who passes her a soft smile. It’s a smile that fills her with love for the season.

“Merry Christmas, dear!” Santa Claus beams at her and offers her the handrail. She’s thankful for it and seats herself on the arm of the chair hoping she wouldn’t topple over. “How are you this season?”  

Hermione doesn’t even have to think about it. “I’m _wonderful_. What about you?”

“Ho, ho, ho! You’re a kind one, aren’t you?” She feels a rush of pride at having being complimented by Santa himself. “I’m very well, thank you for asking, dear. Now, what is it that you want from this old loon?”

“You’re not old, Santa.” She defends. “Just the right age.”

Santa chuckles loudly, attracting quite a few stares - including Harry’s. “That’s a fancy way of saying old. I think I know what you want for Christmas.”

“You do?” Hermione is surprised. She’d been in the mind that she had everything she could ever need.

Mr. Claus hums in agreement. “It’s that boy there, isn’t it? He’s who you want for Christmas.”

Hermione stares at him in disbelief and then sputters out some incoherent nonsense. She’s known for being calm and composed - a logical mind, if you will but... _who could even respond to a statement like that?_

Does she really have it that bad that even Santa Claus can see what a disaster she is in matters of love?

“Don’t fret, now.” Santa’s booming laugh rocks her core. “I was in love once, you know. I used to look at my wife just like how that young boy looks at you.”

“Are you talking about Mrs. Claus?”

“Yes.” Santa smiles wistfully. “She’s the love of my life.”

Hermione’s heart melts at that. “How did you two meet?”

“I spilled coffee on her blouse, funnily enough. She hated me, at first but we were inseparable ever since then. Now, I can’t assure you that you’ll wake up to this boy on Christmas day but I can speed things up a little bit.” Santa adjusts himself and rolls his eyes at an elf who points at his watch. “Buggers - the lot of them. Anyway, dear. Don’t waste time pining after him, yeah? Men are fools. Kind but oblivious fools, the good ones are. I wasted time I could have spent spoiling my wife with affection.”

Hermione swallows and nods sharply. She is a girl with a mission, now. And, said mission was alloted by Santa Claus, himself. Orders are orders and, some way or another, she would have to confess to Harry Potter - preferably before the century ends.

“Thanks, Santa. Can you tell Mrs. Claus I said hi?”

Santa’s eyes are very soft when he says he will.

Hermione wouldn’t notice - much too flustered - but Harry sneaks a glance at her, face matching the suit Santa Claus wore.

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your kudos and comments are appreciated! 
> 
> A huge thank you to @bklh for her comment on Chapter 9. It made our day. 
> 
> Love you guys!

From across the street, the plastic Santa has nobody to stare back at. The girl he usually spies on isn’t at the kitchen’s window this morning.

What 24-carats-smile Santa doesn’t know is that the girl, owner of the house #32, Puddifoot Street, is waiting. She is waiting, right behind her door.

She might seem desperate, but-

Let’s be honest, she _is_ desperate. Desperate to see him again.

Her hand is already on the doorknob, eager to pull it toward her.

The clock shows five minutes past ten, and her grin falters a bit. He is late today.

No, she hasn’t registered his usual time of arrival because she’s a stalker. She did because she studies psychology. She studies people. She loves people.

Or him. Just him.

She loves him.

She shouldn’t, she knows it. They’re best friends. Confronting romantical feelings with friendship is like locking a cat and a dog together in the same room. But sometimes cats and dogs are the best of friends, right?

She shifts her weight from feet to feet, and tries to distract herself with the sound of the popping bubbles of the boiling water for the tea. The pan was already on the stove when she headed to the door, at ten. Um… One minute before ten, actually, in case he would arrive earlier.

But he’s not here yet. He’s late.

So she waits, swallowing her feelings, afraid that she might have said something wrong yesterday, because there would be no other reason for him to be this late, would there? During the ride back home, they laughed a lot. She wasn’t too sticky, she didn’t mock him -- too much. She accepted to eat a doughnut.

She got a mission from Santa himself.

It’s already seven past ten.

The smell of chocolate cookies is floating in the air, tempting her like the apple on the tree.

She has learned to bake perfect biscuits, now. He has taught her. And she loves it. She loves baking. She loves him.

She stamps a foot on the floor, irritated at herself and at chapter 7 of _Psychology of Women_. Why is it that she can’t stop?

But it’s a bit of his fault, too. One can’t go around, be like this -- witty, funny, handsome, charismatic? all of them? -- and not expect it to have consequences.

Two months ago, she would have sworn she’d remain single all her life. Which suited her, her cat, and her books, very well.

At that time.

Today, she knows she doesn’t want to remain single. No matter her, no matter the cat, no matter the studies.

His mesmerizing eyes and dimple smile have won her over.

Hermione bites her lip, wondering if she isn’t overdoing. The water keeps boiling in the kitchen, and most of it must have evaporated by now.

What is he going to thing if she swings the door open before he can even knock a second time? Is he even going to knock? It’s twelve past ten now.

She has something to tell him. She thought about it all night. And maybe she’s still in time.

Unable to bear any more waiting, she flings the door open: she will go herself to-

What’s that folded piece of paper doing on her front step?

Dumb question.

She bends her knees and picks it up from the icy floor. She unfolds it in what seems like an eternity.

_Hey Mione! Had to leave for the day, but I’ll be back before you have the chance to miss me (because you would miss me, wouldn’t you?)_

Why does he have to be so flirty?

Boys… Crushing on girls is simpler.

But she’s way past the crush phase already.

She starts gnawing on her nails.

_Teddy was still sleeping when I left, but I wrote him a note as well. It was too late to call the babysitter when I took my apointment yesterday, so can I ask you to look after him? Pretty please, it’s a very stressed godfather that begs you on his knees to take care of his beloved godson._

She lets her arm fall to her side. How can you say no to such request? ‘Begging on his _knees_.’

_You know he doesn’t do much except eating and ranting, and I consider you strong enough not to die before I get home. We’ll have dinner all together, if you want to? For lunch, I’ve left some pasta on the kitchen counter. You just need to boil it and… well, you probably know how to cook pasta, it’s easier than cookies :b ._

_I’m running late already, so bye._

_Sir Big Head Bigger Ego_

Hermione’s watch shows fifteen past ten.

She’s deceived, but she can’t leave Teddy on his own.

She storms in the kitchen, grabs the plate of recently made cookies, turns the stove off -- completely ignoring the water that has evaporated half its volume -- and comes back in the entrance.

With her green sweater on, which still smells like doughnuts and new clothes, she directs her steps toward the house #34.

* * *

“Do you, by any chance, know where he’s gone?”

Teddy shakes his head. The tons of corn flakes he’s stuffed into his mouth make him look like a chipmunk. A chipmunk with blue hair.

Hiding her deceit at the lack of information with a smile-- she got a lot of experience at masking her feelings, recently --, she points at him with the wooden spoon she’s using to stir the sauce. “How can you eat cereals at noon? We’re going to eat pasta in like, ten minutes!”

For the first time in her life, she’s making a whole meal all by herself, and she’d like to have someone eating it.

“There’s no wrong time for ChocoFlakes!” the kid bellows, throwing a fist in the air, like the superhero that promotes his corn flakes on TV.

“Mmm… If you say so,” Hermione smiles. “You’re a clown, just like your godfather.”

Teddy swallows with difficulty his mouthful of improvised snack, and then hauls himself on the kitchen counter.

“You like him,” he simply states.

Feeling her heart skip a beat, the woman chokes on her saliva. “Wha- Of course not! I mean, yes, but as f-”

“You said yes, you said yes!”

“As a friend, Teddy!”

But it’s too late to make him come back to earth, “Mione and Harry, sitting in a tree-”

“Teddy!” Hermione cries out, turning as red as the tomatoes she’s cooking.

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G...”

“Will you stop it!”

“First comes love-”

“This is absolutely not funny! I’m not gonna make any pasta for you!”

The child eyes her, considering the perspective of having to feed on crackers for the rest of the day. He sees her drawing a carrot from the grocery bag, and his decision is made, “Then comes marriage-”

Hermione resigns herself, and has to listen to two more repetitions of the song before the kid gets tired of it.

“You’re blushing,” he points at her.

“No, I’m not. And you’re a pain.”

“I confirm that second one,” Teddy nods, “But you’re wrong about the first.”

“I’m not blushing, because-”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, Harry does, when we talk about you.”

“Does he?”

The emotion is too transparent in her voice, and Teddy bursts into a loud laughter, which transforms itself in a wheeze.

His hand plunges in the cereal box, and he draws another fistful out. “If I still believed in Santa, I’d ask him to make you two end together.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. So Harry would live here all year long.”

“Or maybe I’d move to his place, in London.”

“Would you like to?”

“Well, ye-”

Oh gosh, he’s tricked her again, and his smile widens, framed by bits of chocolate corn flakes.

“Stop it, Teddy.”

The Lupin boy shrugs, reminding himself that the adults’ world is complicated.

To his right, Hermione’s phone lights up for a second.

The woman grabs it, and opens her notifications.

“It’s- It’s a video,” she tells Teddy. “From Harry.”

Turning the stove off, she heads to the living room.

The boy hops down the counter, hinting a little grin.

“Open it, then.” And he throws himself on the couch next to her.

With a trembling finger, Hermione hits the play button.

“Hey!” A blonde man she doesn’t know greets her, “I’m Andrew, and you must be Mione!” A voice in the background rebukes him. “Sorry, I’ve just been told I can’t call you that. Apparently, the nickname’s reserved. Anyway, we all-” a couple of faces more appear on the screen, smiling and waving “-wanted to thank you for convincing Harry to come! He told us that he stood home to take care of you, last time, and so he couldn’t visit us. But now, the interview has been filmed, and he can’t undo it!”

The video blurs in waves of color, until it gets stable again, framing a well-known dimple smile, “Right from the headquarters of Buzzfeed UK! I’ll be back in about an hour.”

And, casually, he blows a kiss to the camera, before ending the recording.

“You’re blushing again,” Teddy says.

This time, Hermione doesn’t even deny it.

* * *

“I’m home!”

The cry comes from the front door, three hours later, but receives no answer.

“Guys?” Harry steps in the living room, and finds himself looking at a very asleep Teddy, holding the hand of a very asleep Hermione, both snoring on the couch.

His laughter wakes them both up.

“What’s it?” Hermione’s sleepy stare doesn’t focus on him right away, but when it does, Harry feels a fairy tickling his stomach.

Too bad she’s not awake enough to notice his captivated stare, she’d love it.

“How was your day?” Harry asks, dropping himself on the couch next to them.

“Fantastic!” says Teddy. “I ate loads of ChocoFlakes, and we had pasta- I ate all the carrots in the sauce!”

Ruffling his hair, the man offers him a proud smile. “That’s great, buddy. You’ll tell Mom and Dad tomorrow, yeah?”

With a jump, Teddy sits up, “They’re coming tomorrow!” He covers his mouth with a hand still stained in chocolate, “I need to make them a gift!”

Without giving a chance to any of the adults to tell him to wash his face, he dashes toward the stairs.

Hermione shakes her head, looking at Harry, “I wonder how he got asleep, with all the sugar he had… Seemed like you had a good day.”

The man looks away, “I would have loved to spend it with you guys. But I promised you I’d go, so I went. They’re going to upload it on Christmas day. Made me wear an awful hat-”

“Awful hat? You, Harry I-Love-Christmas-So-Darnly-Much Potter call a Christmas hat ugly? I’m eager to see the interview.”

Her chuckle sounds like jingling bells, Harry thinks.

“So… Anything new? Despite the fact that my godson’s gonna be hyperactive for the next week non-stop-”

“I’m sorry. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

Harry brushes her concern away with an expression that clearly says ‘Don’t tell me about it, it’s my everyday fight.’

“You said Teddy’s parents are coming back tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“My parents are visiting. They’ll stay until New Year.”

Harry’s face lightens. “That’s amazing! You must be pretty happy!”

“Well, yeah.” Hermione thinks about the idea she had developed last night, after the visit to Santa. “And I thought that maybe…”

She leans forward and tells him, in a hushed voice, as if it was a secret.

It is not much, really, but she likes the thought of it.

From across the street, the plastic Santa cannot hear her whispered idea, but for once, his bright smile doesn’t appear as fixed anymore. It seems joyful.

It senses something in the air.

Something that feels like… magic


	11. Chapter 11

“And, to conclude this long and unbearable speech of gratitude to all of you present at this table -- I see you snoring Teddy, stop hiding behind that napkin -- I’d like to drink a toast to a woman whom I have met only some ten days ago, but whom I can call, in all certitude, my best friend today. Hermione, this is for you.”

Harry raises his glasses, and Hermione feels tears filling her eyes.

Mr. and Mrs. Lupin arrived with the 8am flight, so, for the second day in a row, it was Hermione who greeted Teddy as he entered the kitchen for breakfast, while Harry drove to the airport. Her own parents knocked on her door a couple of hours later, very surprised not to find their daughter at home, but at her neighbor’s instead. Presentations had ensued immediately -- “Mom, Dad: Harry. Harry-” “Let me guess: Mom and Dad?” -- and, in less than it took the newcomers to properly say hi, Hermione’s idea was announced: her and Harry had planned a joined Christmas Eve dinner for the inhabitants -- provisory or not -- of numbers 32 and 34, Puddifoot Street.

Firstly considering doing it at her place, she had to give up to Mrs. and Mr. Lupin’s insistency: they were so positively surprised at the thought of their neighbor wanting to spend the holiday with them, that they wouldn’t abandon the conviction that it had to be done at their house.

By eleven o’clock, there was a great deal of uncommon traffic between the two residences. Ornaments, plates, grocery provisions: all kinds of items necessary to a feast were moved to the Lupin’s, followed by the curious gaze of some dancing plastic reindeers.

And now, here they are, having eaten the dessert, final piece of the masterwork.

It has all happened so fast that Hermione couldn’t believe her luck.

Her parents are still perplexed as to why they have been invited to spend Christmas with a family they have barely met, but they see their daughter shining with so much happiness that they can’t help but being delighted.

And she has such a good reason to be that happy.

Spending the afternoon cooking with Harry was… The best Christmas gift she could have ever received. Every time she handed him an ingredient, every time he held utensils to her, and their fingers touched, her heart jumped in her throat. 

He shared jokes, she replied clumsily, but it didn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

She likes being herself, around him. 

It’s possible. It’s natural. And she wants to tell him. 

She will, right after dinner, she decides.

Remus Lupin raises from his chair, and puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Son, your words are beautiful, and I understand you perfectly. As weird as it can seem,” he stretches the scars of his neck with a smile, “We had never talked much to Hermione before today. However, I am extremely grateful to her and her parents for this meal. Mr. and Mrs. Granger, your daughter has revealed herself one of the finest girls we’ve ever met, as attentioned as she is cultivated, and I can easily speak in name of my wife and son,” He looks at Dora, who nods, smiling motherly, while stroking her son’s hair, “To say that we are very happy to count her among our friends, now, and to see that she has grown so close to our Harry.”

There is a second of pause, and then Teddy breaks in an applause, followed by the other attendants.

Blushing madly at the list of compliments she received, Hermione can’t look up from her plate before Mr. Lupin sits down.

And when she does, this time she’s lucky enough to catch Harry’s adoring stare.

* * *

 

Incredible how Michael Buble has gone from “Ugh No” to “Heck Yes” in Hermione’s ranking of favorite singers. Now that she hears his voice in the background, she feels like dancing.

From the kitchen, the sound of her mother chatting with Mrs. Lupin is accompanied by the bang of pans on the sink’s borders and the and the rub of sponges on metal and porcelain.

Teddy has dropped asleep on the couch about five minutes ago, while Mr. Lupin and her father have decided to go fetch a bottle of wine in the cave, leaving Hermione and Harry sitting alone on the living room’s carpet, at the foot of the pine tree.

“We make one terribly good team,” Harry blurts, when the cracking of the fire in the chimney’s lair isn’t enough to fill the silence anymore.

“Are you talking about when we cleaned my kitchen, visited the shelter, took care of Teddy all those days, or cooked dinner tonight?” Hermione asks, still too confused and flattered by the toast to think straight.

“Mmmm… More about when we built the fort, actually,” he smiles jokingly, making Hermione’s stomach take a strange flip. “But all those things were nicely done too. And of course, there is the exploit of buying you a sweater-” he mimics pointing a gun at her.

“Oh, drop it,” she blushes, “I love Christmas just as much as you do now.”

“-which looks very warm and cozy on you,” he finishes, admiring the green and gold rivalling with the locks of lost hair that frame her face, “And I wonder if it really is.”

He lets the end of the sentence float in the air, like on a cloud, looking down at the carpet they’re sitting on to shyly avoid her stare.

“Oh, yes, it absolutely is!” Hermione claims, hugging herself, “I would never have p- oh.”

The intensity of Harry’s skin color makes her realize which is the actual meaning of his expressed curiosity. The thought makes its way to her brain, pushing aside the voice that is singing Christmas Is Coming To Town on the radio,and she feels her cheeks light up, her heart speed to a vertiginous beat. 

Like in a dream, she leans forward to wrap her hands around his torso like he was subtly asking for.

And she wonders why she hasn’t hugged him like this before.

His scent is the only thing she can smell, despite the mix of cinnamon and sugar still strolling in the atmosphere. She listens to his heartbeat, to his regular breathing, to the stroking of his hand on the fabric of her sweater.

The warmness of his arms around her back makes her feel safe, makes her want to dive deeper into his embrace. She closes her eyes, living in this moment for the serenity he transmits, for the the pounding of his blood against her cheek.

She wants this instant to be forever, because she feels like it should be forever.

“Mione…”

His voice, sweet and warm like hot chocolate, wakes her up from her dream, just to make her step in another one, a better one. 

He’s looking down at her with that same look he gave her earlier, when they faced each other from across the table. Like a man in love looks at the woman who makes his heart run fast like marine air, makes his chest bloom like spring flowers, makes his cheeks burn hotter than the Sun.

And suddenly, their faces are so close that -- oh heaven -- they could touch.

They are going to touch. They cry for it.

Harry’s eyes become Hermione’s whole universe. Their breaths intertwine. The world becomes numb, cherubs chorus in their minds. Their lips are one simply but a snowflake aw-

“This is some absolutely wonderful idea, Remus!”

At the sound of the voice of Hermione’s father, the two pull apart so fast that they end up sitting one meter away, right as Mr. Granger and Mr. Lupin step in the room, holding each a bottle of wine for the next day. Attracted by her husband’s exclamation, Mrs. Granger joins them, followed by Dora. 

“What are you bellowing about, darling?”

“Oh, Remus wants to take us on a trip to his family house, in the South!” Mr. Granger answers. None of the newcomers pay any attention to the very flushed young people next to the Christmas tree. “We’ll have to make up for this by inviting you and Dora over in the North, my friend.”

“There is no need to, Wendell! We do this with so much pleasure!”

“We need to plan a very good journey, Remus, our guests deserve the best,” says Dora, then turns to the Grangers, “We’re the ones who have to thank you. This was the most warm holiday dinner ever. That’s what Teddy told me earlier, and pleasing him is no piece of cake..”

At the mention of his name, the child opens his eyes and sits straight on the couch. “Cake? Can I have some?”

The parents burst in a loud laughter, and sit on the couch next to him, preparing to chat the night away.

Still sitting on the floor, Hermione can’t digest how close she was to kiss Harry, and how faith pushed them apart cruelly.

Was it even real?

A quick glance at Harry’s red cheeks tells her that she was not, in fact,  dreaming. 

She wonders if she was going to feel like the heroines in the fairytales she has started to read again: like on a cloud, with fireworks lightning inside of her chest, and sparks dancing before her eyes.

For the rest of the evening, she has no occasion to discover it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, here concludes the twelve days of Christmas! We hope you liked this story that's taken up a huge place in both of our hearts. We love you and a big thank you to everyone who commented and gave us a kudos! 
> 
> This is your reminder to drink water / take your meds / eat your meals if you haven't and sleep if it's late there! 
> 
> All our love !

“It’s Christmas!”

The usual cry of childish happiness resounds in every house of Puddifoot Street. Or rather, _nearly_ every one.

Hermione, head deep in her pillows, is too occupied snoring to worry about anything.

But at ten o’clock, something makes her lazily open her eyes.

It’s a little, muffled tick.

When another noise makes her sit up, she thinks of squirrels running on the roof.

Groaning and sure that she won’t be able to sleep again, she runs a hand through her messy hair, hoping to untangle it a bit before breakfast, when a third tick echoes in the room. This time, she’s managed to understand that it came from the window

Not even bothering with putting her slippers on, and regretting this decision as her feet meet the icy floor, Hermione heads toward her curtains. Upon opening them, she looks down at the street, and has to blink twice before recognizing Harry, wrapped in a heavy coat, holding some small stones in his hand.

She thrusts the glass panel open, but then finds herself unable to articulate anything. Last night’s memories resurface from behind the wall of sleep.

“Morning, Mione!”

His words transform in little clouds of mist as soon as he pronounces them. Little clouds of happiness.

“Hey, Harry.”

Her voice is raucous from sleep, but still makes him shiver.

“Did you have breakf-” His eyes focus on her pajamas, and she blushes deeply. “Well, apparently not. I came to see if you wanted to go on a stroll, but you surely would like to eat bef-”

“Just give me two minutes,” she chimes. “I’m gonna put something on.”

And in exactly two minutes, a very breathless Hermione is closing the door of her house behind her.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Harry asks, worried that she didn’t take the time she needed to join him.

The woman shakes her head. “I ate too much pudding, yesterday.”

It’s not a lie. Not totally. But she doesn’t feel like telling him she isn’t hungry because of the butterflies taking most of the space in her stomach.

The day around them is like a Christmas day should be: white, fresh, jolly. It’s a witness of the smoke rising from the stone chimneys, of the sparkling decorations in the backyards, of the whispers of joy in the air.

The young people’s steps are cadenced, synchronized.

“Nice evening, yesterday. You had the best of the ideas.”

He has repeated her so at least a thousand times, in the past two days, but every time feels like the first one.

“And you are the best of the cooks, Harry.”

The man shrugs, his hands deeply buried in his pocket leaving him just the right freedom to do so.

Under her breath, Hermione starts whispering the notes of a song they’ve listened to countless of times while preparing the dinner.

“I’ll be home for Christmas,” she sings, imagining Michael Buble’s deep voice accompanying them in their walk, “You can count on me...”

“I know I can,” Harry interrupts her.

She gives him a faked stern look, and persists, “Please have snow and mistletoe-”

“Mmm. You’d think I’d have sang a Christmas song.”

“And presents by the tree,” she raises her voice a little, insisting on the syllabes. “Christmas Eve will find me.”

“I’m proud of you, former Grinch.”

“Where the love light gleams-”

“I'll be home for Christmas,” Harry finally joins her.

“If only in my dreams.”

Hermione spins on her tiptoes, eyes closed, almost colliding with a him.

“If only in my dreams.”

Harry catches her by the waist, and attracts her close to him before she can hurt herself with a street lamp pole.

“If only in my dreams,” they bellow in Winter’s ears, finishing their performance with some over dramatic acting.

The crazy laughter can’t be avoided, and when they finish roaring, they realize they’re in each other’s arms.

“Er- about- about what happened yesterday night- or well, nearly happened…”

Harry’s stare falls to the ground, which is funny because, because of how tall he is, Hermione can still see the green of his eyes.

She feels his muscles below his coat, she feels her chest pressed to his, and, for the umptienth time, she repeats herself how much she loves him.

This is where she belongs, where she was bound to end up for all these years, where she wants to stay for her whole life.

In Harry’s arms.

Home.

“The house was too busy,” she murmurs. If Harry wasn’t standing this close to her, her words would dissolve in the soft breeze that flirts with her hair. “But now-”

“Now’s the perfect time,” Harry responds, “To tell you what I want for Christmas.”

A weird sensation lights up in her chest, a fire slowly increasing the height of its flames.

“Yeah?” Her voice is strangled with emotions. “And- what is it?”

His eyes dive into hers. She suddenly becomes very conscious of his warm breath so close to her lips.

“You.”

_You._

Their kiss is as light as a snowflake, and as hoped for as snow on Christmas Day.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's vital that we have an epilogue, right? Wishing you the best of holidays! Be kinder this season. Love you.

When she looks at him, her senses are heightened and she wonders if Harry is the epitome of all good in the world for the freckles by his nose are like the galaxy of constellations high above, the trace of his nose is like a river of endless beauty. Love has turned her into a poet, making her riddle whether the color of the flecks in his eyes are amber or onyx. 

Somedays, she’ll wake up and nestle into his warmth, listening to his heartbeat to assure herself he’s there  _ with  _ her. Nothing of angst value has ghosted their lives yet, and hopefully never but that fantasy is probably as unrealistic as Harry giving up hot chocolate. 

Hermione drinks in his face and gestures, awed that the man was with her.  _ With her!  _ Would she ever cease to be perplexed by the turn of events? For once, the universe hasn’t abused her power and granted her the man of her dreams. 

Her Darcy, Gilbert Blythe and Dylan O’Brien. 

Her  _ Harry _ . 

There isn’t a man to be written like him in future textbooks nor fanfiction that would make people’s heart seize with affection and squeals to ripple. Harry, he was  _ perfect _ . There were times when they had fights but such things often faded with the simple mode of communication and never escalated to the extent of slammed doors and dishonesty. 

The yin to her yang. If there was a world where soulmates danced like ballet dancers in symphony, Hermione knew without an inkling of doubt that her other half would be Harry. In every lifetime, every universe, she found herself longing that her other selves would fall in love like she had. With a man who respected her and cared about her  _ needs  _ more than his  _ wants _ . 

The universe smiles upon them now on a misty morning that smells of the buds of winter and moisture of the Earth. Having been just at a carnival to celebrate their three year anniversary, their cheeks have the residue of cotton candy. Harry’s cheeks might have the mark of a red lipstick but such whereabouts are positively  _ uncertain _ . 

Harry wraps his arms around her waist and pulled her down from the jeep. She lets out a squeak as he spins her around, laughing before he sets her down. She loves him so much at this point, it’s unreal. 

They coordinate their footsteps as their hands swing together. The breath of the ocean greets them, it’s crispy breeze scented of salt and fried fish, clearing their years away with a gentle kiss.

Hermione pulls off her sandals, the action that Harry follows and they run towards the tide, feet sinking in the sand. 

“The water’s freezing.” Harry says, using the observation as an excuse to tug the woman closer to his side. 

“It’s winter, Harry! Of course, it’s going to be cold.” Hermione murmurs as a shiver racks her petite frame. The wording is condescending, perhaps to someone who doesn’t  _ know  _ her _.  _ To Harry, who knows her maze of a mind like it’s painted at the back of his hand, doesn’t register the bite of her words nor gets angry. 

It’s one of the reasons why her planet revolves around the sun that he is. There’s yet a person she’s met who loves her ‘flaws’ as vehemently as she hated them. Harry didn’t want to call her quirks flaws, he called them cacti - he was very dorky that way - because they were a symbol of her strength and bore flowers in a variety of hues. 

They splash water on each other for a while, their inexplicable laughter ringing in the mellow evening, attracting smiles from a few passerbys.

Hermione admires her boyfriend in the emblazoned glow of scarlett. The sun illuminates his face casting a ripple of twisted layers on the sea. He’s never looked as handsome as he does then and moved by a surge of affection, she seizes onto him. 

He looks down at her and it’s  _ real _ . If all her life she’s been on autopilot, she’s finally alive. This moment with them under the fading orb of gold and their heartbeats in sync. 

Like so long ago, Harry hums a carol under his breath. It’s  _ All I want for Christmas is you,  _ she realizes as the first tone drums in her head. Their bodies move naturally, imitating the steps on that living room floor years ago. The sun peers on them, inducing them to shut their eyes and lean on the other. 

They dance to soundless music eventually, refusing to move even if an asteroid hit them at full force. 

“I love you, you know that, right?” Harry asks out of the blue, seriousness seeping into his tone out. “I love you so much it’s hard to breathe. You literally take my breath away and every morning, when we eat breakfast together? I think it’s the best feeling I’ve experienced but then I come home from work and it begins again. That feeling that I’m blessed. Every moment spent with you makes me the happiest I’ve been in my life.”

Hermione swept by the emotion can only stare in stupefied wonder as Harry goes down on one knee and reaches to remove a box from the right pocket from his pants. Shock overwhelms her and she stares at the box and then, at Harry with wide blown eyes. 

“What-” She begins, stumbling on the syllables. They’ve discussed marriage. Of course, they have. It’s a necessary subject that needs to be broached at least once in a relationship to understand the other’s prospects. Hermione was beyond delighted when Harry shared her sentiments about marriage.

Sometimes, she had wondered what a life would be like if she married Harry. It wasn’t as different as her life with him, if she was being honest but the title of husband never failed to make her shiver like she’d been plunged into icy water. 

It made her  _ happy  _ to dream of the band around her finger and she knew the proposal was inevitable. And, she had already decided she would say  _ yes  _ but it was still breathtaking at his thoughtfulness. 

They’d even decided to adopt children from the foster home they had gone to years ago. Once, Hermione secured her psychology degree, her income started pouring in as anticlimax as it sounded. And, they had both contacted the agency inquiring about adoption. So, it would make sense if Harry….

“Mione.” Harry says. “I love you with every fibre of my being. Ardently and forever. You have me under a spell and I never want to be apart from you. I want to be yours.  _ Only  _ yours. I promise that you’ll never spend a day alone if you accept this ring.” The box clicks as it opens. “Will you accept my  _ promise  _ ring?” 

Promise ring?  _ Oh _ . Masking the disappointment that threatens to burst, Hermione smiles at the ring. It’s a strawberry. 

Thoughtful, gentle Harry. 

She doesn’t know what she did to deserve him. 

“Of course, I will.” Hermione says, gratitude spreading through her as fast as red corpuscles travelled. “Why are you even asking- Of course, I will accept any ring-” 

She’s cut off as Harry lets out a squeal of delight before he twirls her like a princess. The rest of the world is a blur as she’s captured in timeless infectious joy. Only they would be incredibly happy over promises. Their love is the love you read about in books and watch about in movies. It’s the kind of love that’s started and ended wars. The one that makes you deliriously mad. 

“I love you, Harry.” She mumbles into his neck, tugging at his locks of ebony hair as she peppers him with kisses. “You’re my favorite person to be around.” 

Harry pulls away very reluctantly deducing by the look on his face. If it was up to him, he’d willingly treat his girlfriend like the Disney princess she was by an unending bound of dizziness and breathless twirling. 

“I’m glad to hear that.” He says and there’s a note of mysterious nervousness that she’s never heard from him before. 

And, then he gets down on one knee again. “Because you’re my favorite person too. You make my heart go asjdhajsdh-”

“How are you saying that with your mouth?” 

“Don’t ruin the moment. Will you marry me, Mione? And, make me the happiest man in the world? I’ll make you cookies if you say yes.” 

Through the concoction of tears, Hermione nods blindly and flings herself on her boyfriend-fiance- sending them sprawling on the sand. 

“A million times, yes,  _ yes _ .” Hermione breathes, swallowing Harry’s laughter as her lips close over his. 


End file.
